


Convergence

by sfumatosoup



Series: Collisions [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon Timeline, Complicated Relationships, Courtship, Episode Related, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Relationship, Series, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: It's only a matter of time before he identifies what's happening. These new feelings are inconvenient and unwelcome and Julian Bashir doesn't know how this happened or what to do about it.Garak knows that good things come to those who wait, only, he's been waiting for awhile for the Doctor to figure it out.And then there's the war and their paths diverge. He would like to think he'll see the Doctor again, but one can never say.





	1. Chapter 1

It was closing on noon and Garak hadn't had the most ideal of mornings. In hindsight he'd later wonder if he should have just stayed in bed from the start.

He'd awoken to yet another piercing headache, a malady that had appeared to be increasing in both frequency and severity of late. He had a reasonable hunch as to the cause and knew that barring death, there wasn't exactly a feasible way to deactivate the implant that wouldn't result in that outcome anyway. Hacking the device to enable its function had been an act born of sheer misery and desperation, and he'd been quite aware that doing so might prove potentially lethal. But then, at the time, that risk hadn't seemed terribly objectionable when he'd considered the alternative.

At any rate, there was no use dwelling on it, his condition was tolerable for now and the headache would usually sort itself out once he'd finished washing for the morning. Unfortunately however, that likelihood was looking less promising as the throbbing pain in his temples persisted throughout breakfast.

Distracted by the annoying aural blur clouding the edges of his vision, he'd somehow managed to knock over his tea into his lap and by the time he'd finished sopping up the mess and changing into fresh clothing, he'd realized that if he didn't hurry, he'd be late for his oh-seven-hundred delivery. He'd sprinted through the promenade to his shop, fully expecting to have to apologize profusely to an impatient messenger awaiting his signature tapping their toes on the doorstep of his shop. He'd arrived with barely a minute to spare, short of breath, hair amok and in generally less than publicly presentable form for the day, dismayed to discover neither messenger nor parcel.

This setback would certainly foil Garak's attempt to impress his newest client whom had been quite insistent on examining every sample of material intended to fashion the gown she'd commissioned for her upcoming Bre'nNan. Over the course of the past two weeks, she'd proven rather difficult to appease, always less than wholly satisfied with any of the dozens of design he'd drafted. _'The applique shouldn't go there', 'The shoulder doesn't sit high enough', etc._

Although, in her defense, Garak knew all too well that her potential future mother-in-law, a proud woman of a prominent house and rank, as well as occasional patron of his when passing through, could never be recommended for bearing anything remotely resembling a forgiving nature.

“ _Sounds a bit Oedipal actually,”_ Julian Bashir had remarked after Garak had related the trouble he'd been having to the doctor over lunch last week. _“Of course the beloved son would seek a mate that would so resemble mummy dearest.”_ After discovering his companion had little context for the reference, Garak had been subjected to an animated lecture about ancient Terran mythology that had left him breathless. The doctor's impressive breadth of knowledge and intelligence never ceased to amaze him.

Regardless of his current difficulty with his demanding client, Garak kept his nose down to the proverbial grindstone and his eyes on the prize. If the young woman was indeed found to be a suitable match for the old matriarch's precious son, the following union aboard the station would result in at least a dozen new commissions from the visiting attendees.

His incentive would come in the form of more than just the gratifying sums he'd tally in his ledger at month's end, but in the demonstration of his ability to provide reliably nondiscriminatory, exceptional service to all the inhabitants of the station regardless of Cardassia's presently strained relations with the Federation. Ever since Terok Nor's handover post occupation, and with thanks due to the discovery of the wormhole and subsequent relocation to the Denorios belt, the outpost had developed into a thriving center for commerce and trade, drawing in various races from all across the quadrant. Yet, in spite of the refreshing influx of different faces, the majority of the resident population was still by default, Bajoran, which didn't exactly create the most hospitable atmosphere for the only resident Cardassian. Thus, establishing a good reputation had become rather imperative for not only the maintenance of a comfortable income, but also to regain favor with Tain. There was potential in his current situation he could work to his advantage. If could earn the trust of the Federation, he could become a sort of de facto representative for Cardassia; a convenient cover for a spy. _Plain, simple Garak the tailor,_ the perfect decoy, and if he did his job well, perhaps he would be allowed to eventually return to his beloved homeworld.

Garak had fully intended to use the small block of time before his appointment with the Klingon to wash and card the Galipotan wool in preparation for its presentation, but instead, delivery MIA, he'd found himself with little else to do to wile away the hour but to twiddle his thumbs and tidy the shelves. Unfortunately, too often the shelves were already in impeccable order.

His client's reaction to the delay was unsurprisingly displeased (to say the least), and this displeasure carried forward into her opinion of not only his latest drawings but the quality of the targ pelts he'd brought out of storage. _'The fur is far too dull,'_ she'd insisted, disdainfully scowling at the freshly combed and oiled pelts he'd lain out. Of course, he'd have to put a rush on any order to replace them, and even then, they still might not come in time, he'd explained, attempting to appeal to reason. This was met with a growl of disgust as she reluctantly accepted the fact that she would simply have to make do. “ _You'll incorporate more hide than fur to compensate,”_ she'd instructed and Garak had nodded obediently, gritting his teeth behind a tight, closed lipped smile. Finally, he'd bade the Klingon a good day, promising to present her with a design by tomorrow that wouldn't fail to inspire envy from every clothier and highborn woman on Qo'nos.

The young woman had narrowed her stern, dark eyes at him and sneered, _“For your sake, tailor, you better be sure you're right about that.”_ Garak never could understand why Klingons always felt like they had to make everything sound like a threat.

The only real saving grace to the day by this point was that come twelve-hundred he could look forward to sharing his lunch with the Doctor again. It had become something of a weekly routine over the past year—he would meet the young man at the replimat and over their meal they would engage in an invigorating conversation and Garak would delight in his friend's cleverness and company. Then, come time to part ways again, in spite of the constant artificial release of endorphins, he couldn't help but feel too sharp a pang of disappointment. For a little while afterward, his world would always seem a little bleaker and the unfortunate circumstances of his reality would be felt like a dull blade carving a methodical hole between his ribs.

_What an interesting new friend he'd made, indeed_. Not just anyone would have risked their reputation to talk to the mysterious and distrusted exile. It made every slur, glare and slight he politely endured merely venturing into public everyday sting a little less bitterly. Still, he sometimes wished for a small amount more than the meagerly rationed hour the Doctor afforded him but once a week.

Garak sighed as he put away his drafting padd back into the drawer of his desk. Perhaps his grim mood was making him feel a little more resentful than usual.

At a quarter til noon, just as he'd been considering closing shop early to head down to the replimat, the entry bell chimed alerting Garak to a small group of Tellarites wandering in. Suppressing an irritable sigh he smiled tightly, welcoming them and providing an offer of his assistance if desired.

He cringed as he watched two young men rifle through his meticulously folded pile of Oslan silk tunics, a notoriously stubborn material to press wrinkles out of and groaned inwardly as their older female companion ran her hand over the delicate fabric appraisingly.

“Are you _quite_ certain there is nothing I can help you find?” Garak asked, keeping his tone evenly modulated and his smile friendly. The woman in question turned her rather unfortunately pronounced porcine probosces toward him in half acknowledgment and frowned. “These are all too long,” she complained.

“Anything in the store can be altered to your specifications,” Garak explained politely. “If you would care to schedule a fitting, I should be able to slot you in for an appointment later this afternoon.”

“Maybe some other time,” she shrugged noncommittally, and Garak, taking this as an encouraging cue that they would be turning around to leave any moment found himself growing quite impatient as they did just the opposite. The relentless devastation exacted upon his carefully arranged displays was utterly distressing enough that he'd briefly humored the idea of calling over Odo to have them arrested for vandalism.

Of course, by the time they had finally decided to leave after laying waste to his shop, they'd neither purchased a single item nor bothered to secure a single appointment.

“Garak! I've been waiting for ages,” Julian exclaimed as Garak finally stepped out of his shop. “I was almost ready to head off to lunch without you.”

“I'm sorry I kept you,” Garak apologized, “I had to do just a touch of tidying after a rather unexpected hurricane swept through.”

“Curious misfortune considering DS9 is climate controlled,” Julian remarked ironically.

“And yet somehow not insulated against the inconsideration of certain Tellarites.”

“Mm,” Julian hummed.

“What a waste of a morning,” Garak grumbled as they walked through the promenade together. “That Galipotan freighter was scheduled to be here at oh-seven-hundred and it still hasn't arrived.”

Julian nodded sympathetically and Garak sighed. “Well, I suppose that's the price of doing business with a culture that refuses to even acknowledge the concept of time...though I have to admit, they make wonderful sweaters.”

The young man attempted to unsuccessfully cover a yawn and Garak frowned. “I hope I'm not boring you, Doctor.”

“Not at all,” Julian dismissed, “I was just up late last night.”

“Entertaining one of your lady friends?”

“Unfortunately, no. Actually, I was reading the last few chapters of the Never-Ending Sacrifice.”

Garak couldn't help but be secretly pleased by the correction to his assumption, renewing his respect for the young man. He didn't count himself among those on the station that looked askance at the Doctor's notorious skirt-chasing ways, but it was flattering to know that his friend had been more interested in preparing for their lunch conversation than getting laid.

“Isn't it superb? Without a doubt the finest Cardassian novel ever written,” Garak exclaimed, laughing to himself at the Doctor's unenthusiastic expression. He knew the young man well enough to know by now that his recommendation would not quite be his 'cup of tea', but if they were going to persist discussing Cardassian culture, his friend was going to need to have a passable understanding of its ethos.

“I'll take your word for it,” Julian replied blandly.

“You didn't enjoy it?”

“I thought it was...interesting, though maybe a little dull,” Julian hesitated. “In spots,” he added a second later, backpedaling.

Garak's grin fell as they reached the long line for the replicators. He could already feel the return of his headache from earlier. “Wonderful. At this rate, we should be done eating lunch just in time for dinner.”

“There's always Quark's,” Julian suggested.

“True,” Garak admitted, “but I'm not really in the mood for noisy, crowded and vulgar today.”

Julian smirked. “Then I suppose the Klingon restaurant is out of the question?”

Garak shook his head with convincing disbelief. “I can't believe I'm eating lunch with a man who thinks the Never-Ending Sacrifice is dull,” he sighed, returning to their original subject.

“I just thought it got a little redundant after awhile,” the Doctor defended. “I mean... the author is supposed to be chronicling seven generations of a single family... but he tells the same story over and over again. All the characters live lives of selfless duty to the state, get old, and die. And then, the next generation comes along and does it all over again.”

Garak grimaced, rubbing his throbbing temples. “That's the whole point, Doctor. The repetitive epic is the most elegant form of Cardassian literature and the Never-Ending Sacrifice is its greatest achievement.”

“But the characters never really come alive,” Julian argued. “I mean, there's more to life than serving the state.”

Of course he would think so. “A Federation viewpoint if ever I heard one,” Garak huffed irritably, scowling at the unmoving cue in front of them. “This is ridiculous. Can't you just move to the front of the line? Tell them it's a medical emergency or something.”

“We're almost there,” Julian replied, looking less concerned by Garak's complaint than he was by the fact that Garak seemed to be complaining in the first place. Garak was immensely grateful when out of respect for his privacy, the Doctor wisely steered the conversation back to their debate. “Look, maybe if you lent me another book...by a different writer?”

Garak barely processed the suggestion, squeezing his temples as he was attacked by another wave of discomfort. “It would only be a waste of time,” he spat out just a little more tersely than he'd intended. “When it comes to art, you're obviously a prisoner of Federation dogma and human prejudice.”

The Doctor glanced at him, taken aback by the criticism. “Sorry you feel that way, but I am trying my best to...” Julian trailed off unable to ignore Garak hunched over in sudden, crippling pain. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Garak replied lightly, struggling to maintain his facade against the intolerable agony pulsing behind his eyes.

“You don't look fine,” Julian remarked, examining him. “Your skin is clammy and your pupils are contracted.”

Just then, to his relief,the torment seemed to subside and Garak quickly collected himself, tossing an easy, pacifying smile in the Doctor's direction. “I assure you, I'm in perfect health. Now, you were asking about other Cardassian novels,” he continued, redirecting them back to the subject, “Something maybe a little more accessible...”

Then suddenly, Garak felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and smashed it with all their might into the top of his skull. He grimaced as a wave of nausea passed through him.

“ _'Perfect health'_ you say? Then Cardassian standards must be a little lower than mine,” Julian huffed.

_Damn it all,_ of course it was too much to hope he could make it through this without alarming the Doctor's  _doctorly_ instincts.

“Come on,” Julian directed, taking him gently by the arm in an attempt to lead him out of line. Garak bristled at his nerve.

“Doctor, what do you think you're doing?” he demanded in as light a tone as he could muster.

“Taking you to the infirmary.”

“That won't be necessary,” Garak told the young man defensively, trying and failing not to wince as his accursed head pounded like a herd of fat toj'lath were trampling through.

Julian gave him a small, placating smile, “Maybe not, but humor me.”

“Frankly, Doctor, I'm getting a little tired of _'humoring'_ you. There's nothing wrong with me that a little peace and privacy wouldn't cure,” Garak snapped. “Now if you'll excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

 

<~~~>

 

“ _Living on this station is torture for me, Doctor,”_ Garak had miserably confessed. _“One day I decided I couldn't live with it anymore. So I...took the pain away.”_

Julian frowned down at the tray of hyposprays he'd been organizing, sidetracked by his thoughts,. the drama of the past couple of weeks replaying in a constant, frustrating loop.

With a defeated sigh, he dumped the rest into a basket in the cabinet to deal with later and decided he may as well head off to the replimat early. Barring an actual medical emergency, he had faith that Jabara could handle herself well enough. If anything, in his current state of distraction he was little better than underfoot if the nurse's small, irritated sighs throughout the morning were anything to go by.

“How's Garak?” Julian asked the nurse, busy administering treatment to a patient's sprained wrist.

“Still asleep as of half-an-hour ago,” she reported before returning her attention to the old Bajoran. “Now if you could, just close your hand into a fist and release again. Very good. How does that feel?”

“I was thinking I might pop off to lunch a bit early today if you wouldn't mind,” Julian announced, hesitating a little as he glanced between Jabara's patient and the room where Garak was sleeping.

“I think I can manage to hold down the fort, Doctor,” she replied wryly, easily intuiting the source of his concern. “I'm fairly sure we'll both survive in your absence.”

Not wanting to appear as if he lacked confidence in Jabara, he fought the urge to double-check on his friend and forced himself out the door before he could change his mind again. He knew he was running the risk of becoming paranoid, but getting the stubborn Cardassian to stay put and rest hadn't been an easy feat.

Though, the thing of it was, it was neither the status of his patient's post-op recovery nor the exhaustive enigma of lies and startling revelations he'd waded through in his effort to save him that currently weighed so heavily on Julian's mind.

“ _You think because we have lunch together once a week, you know me?”_

Of course, he didn't truly know him. Could anyone really? Garak was just as 'plain' and 'simple' as Julian was—which was to say, _not very—_ and they both wore their respective disguises expertly. Even then, the extent of their interactions had been fairly minimal, constrained to just the ritual once a week lunch they shared. Still, this hadn't seemed to hamper the development of their relationship.

Perhaps initially it hadn't started with the noblest of intentions; Julian had been clever enough to figure out why the Cardassian had come over to his table that day.

It was evident enough by the fact that he was sitting alone that he'd suffered a rocky start making friends on the station. His colleagues hadn't taken to him readily and the other residents had seemed to feel neutrally at best. In short, he'd been lonely, and because of this, from Garak's point of view, he could concede he'd made himself an easy mark. Befriending the young, naive Federation officer would make for simple work and open all the right doors for a clever spy seeking to gather intel. Or at the very least, provide a sufficient access point a desperate _exile_ would need to gain standing again with his former superiors.

However, these duplicitous motives weren't one-sided. Julian had preened with excitement. Out of everyone on the station, the most fascinating person aboard had chosen _him._ He could turn it around on the spy, carefully extract little bits and pieces here and there to feed back to ops...

Of course, in reality, this venture had proven mostly fruitless and eventually his professional investment had become more of a personal hobby.

Then there had been this unexpected _ad idem_ realization—a mutual recognition of common interests and discovery of an intellectual equal. Garak's sheer brilliance demanded a certain level of reciprocity, and thus, for once Julian could relax his guard to some extent. The discovery of an outlet where he could finally flex his restless, long sequestered aptitude and be more authentically himself than he'd ever been was an extraordinary and unexpected gift.

It had always been of absolute necessity to maintain the veneer of normalcy, not only to protect his position within Starfleet, but for the sake of preserving his very livelihood and freedom. He'd crafted the perfect illusion, one of unprepossessing naivety to compensate for the less likable show of braggadocio and unapologetic arrogance, the latter of which was crucial for creating a convincing obfuscation. Why? Because the greatest way to hide the truth was to amplify it.

This all worked almost too effectively to keep others at an arm's length. Intimacy risked discovery which in turn almost always risked inevitable exposure. This was why his love affairs were short lived and friendships were few, far between and fundamentally superficial at their core. Which was why, after nearly a decade-and-a-half of keeping up the exhausting pretense, the peripheral threat was no longer enough to discourage him from taking the gamble that his very clever, very observant friend might put together the pieces of the puzzle. Besides, there was always something thrilling about playing with fire and for all his many talents his enhancements afforded him, Julian had never been particularly good at self-denial. The game was an addictive one: he and Garak would take turns baiting and evading the traps the other would set, daring the other to slip up and reveal his hand.

Additionally, there was an innate sympathy shared by two people who knew the lonely burden of keeping secrets, and loneliness was a condition Garak had undoubtedly suffered here on unfriendly turf, met with a constant barrage of prejudice and general hostility at nearly every turn.

Julian had to admit, he'd used this to his advantage, further endearing himself to the exile by making an express effort to pointedly ignore the speculative and reproachfulful stares they'd get as they'd pass through the promenade together. He couldn't exactly misread the quiet gratitude this earned him.

Most importantly, regardless of everything else, at the end of the day, not only did Garak appreciate his company and conversation, he also seemed to actually _like_ him, and oddly enough, in spite of their differences, Julian had come to like him too.

And thus, over the course of several meals and books, this disingenuous arrangement originally built upon mutual usury, gradually and quite organically evolved into a mutually beneficial friendship.

“ _I was left to live out my days with nothing to look forward to but having lunch with you_.”

“ _I'm sorry you feel that way,”_ Julian had replied, stung. _“I thought you enjoyed my company.”_

“ _I did. That's the worst part,”_ Garak had lashed out, seething with fury and self loathing. _“To think that I actually enjoyed eating mediocre food while staring at your smug, sanctimonious face.”_

Julian knew it was neither productive nor fair to dwell over the harsh and unfair things Garak had said to him during the depths of his misery, but no amount of rationalization could keep him from fixating on the their memory.

He knew Garak had meant to hit below the belt and Julian had even understood why— _anyone_ in Garak's situation, in that condition would have resisted his well-meaning 'meddling'—

Julian wasn't nursing any resentment. He'd fully and easily forgiven Garak. That wasn't what he was still hung up on. _No,_ what he couldn't get over was how _keenly_ hurt he'd felt.

“ _I hate this place, and I hate you.”_

“ _Alright, Garak, that's your prerogative,”_ Julian had replied, his determination never faltering despite the fact that he'd felt as if he'd just taken a punch to the solar plexus.

Garak was emotionally unstable and in excruciating pain. He'd known better than to believe him, but that had neither softened the blow, nor mitigated the ache that would linger afterward. Just the prospect of Garak hating him had disturbed Julian enough that he'd found himself forced to evaluate just _why_ it bothered him so much. And up until that point, he'd never realized quite how much he'd valued Garak's good opinion nor how much he'd relied on the man's friendship.

He was confused by the scope of his reaction. Of course he knew that he hadn't gone to these lengths just to uphold his Hippocratic oath or preserve his moral integrity. Not that he doesn't invest great effort into the care he gives all his patients, but he seriously doubted he'd have stayed up all night personally monitoring his patient's condition and travel all the way to face a man like Enebran Tain for just about anyone else.

After Garak had collapsed, Julian had been a wreck of raw nerves. The thought of losing the man had him awash with dread, and although he'd performed his operation with steady hands, Julian's pulse had been anything but.

Once he had collected his lunch he headed to an empty table and took a seat. He dragged his hands wearily over his face.

So, it looked like he _cared_ about the impossible bastard. Not that this was a particularly startling revelation, it was just that he cared far more than he'd suspected or ever anticipated and he really didn't know what to do with that.

Julian poked at his meal without much enthusiasm feeling confused and lonelier than ever when he suddenly noticed someone step up to his table. His eyes widened in surprise as they settled on Garak standing over him holding a food tray.

“May I join you?”

Julian nodded, granting his permission and Garak took the seat across from him.

“What are you doing up?” Julian scolded. “You're supposed to be in bed.”

Garak gave him an amiable smile. “Out of the question. I couldn't stand to be cooped up in that dreadful infirmary for another second. Besides, I feel perfectly fine,” he reported. “How's the I'danian spice pudding today?”

Julian gawked at him incredulously. “ _'How's the spice pudding?'_ Is that all you have to say for yourself? You're just going to sit there and pretend the last ten days never happened?”

“I for one, Doctor, am perfectly satisfied with the way things turned out and I see no reason to dwell on what was doubtlessly a difficult time for both of us. By the way,” Garak smirked, “I just had the most interesting conversation with Constable Odo. It seems he was under the impression that I was a member of the Obsidian Order.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That he was mistaken, of course.”

Julian quirked a wry grin. “And he believed you?”

“He said something about keeping a closer eye on me in the future. I told him to be my guest...I have nothing to hide,” Garak replied with casual nonchalance as he took out a dataclip and placed it on the table. “Here, I brought you something.”

Julian looked at the item curiously. “What is it?”

“It's Meditations on a Crimson Shadow by Preloc.”

“More Cardassian literature?”

Garak smiled pleasantly. “I think you'll find this one more to your taste. It takes place in the future, during a time when Cardassia and the Klingon Empire were at war.”

“Who wins?”

“Who do you think?” Garak queried mischievously.

“Never mind. Don't tell me. I wouldn't want you to spoil the ending,” Julian grinned before setting the clip aside. “You know, I still have a lot of questions I want to ask you about your past.”

“I've given you all the answers I'm capable of.”

“You gave me answers, all right, but they were all different. What I want to know is... of all the stories you told me, which ones were true and which ones weren't?”

“My dear Doctor, they're all true.”

Julian narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Even the lies?”

“Especially the lies,” Garak replied mysteriously, giving him his patented half-smile, and Julian was so relieved to see it again, that for a split-second he couldn't decide whether he'd rather wring the bastard's neck or kiss the cheeky grin right off his infuriating face.

_Wait... what?!_

Julian abruptly flinched, recoiling inwardly as far back as he could from the jarring, spontaneous urge.

_Where in the seven hell's had that even come from?_

Screwing a tight lid on the thought, he quickly purged it to the back of his mind, concealing his sudden discomfort with an easy-going grin, only to find Garak eyeing him with mild curiosity.

“I don't mean to pry, but are _you_ feeling well?”

“Of course,” Julian replied lightly, his stomach turning a flip. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Garak's eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction, studying his face for some sort of sign he wasn't being entirely honest and Julian quickly drew up his shields, attempting to appear innocently clueless. 

Seeming to come to some kind of decision after a second's debate, Garak ceased his examination and his expression turned thoughtful.

“You've been remarkably kind to me, Doctor,” he eventually remarked and Julian couldn't help but notice after a few protracted seconds of silence, that Garak had no intention of completing the thought, leaving it strategically open-ended as if hoping for an explanation—leaving the ball, so to speak, in _Julian's_  court.

In a way, he supposed it was kind of sad really, that Garak had seen so little genuine kindness that when he received it, he instantly suspected some ulterior motive.

“Garak,“ Julian began, “I would have done whatever I could for anyone in your position—” he paused as he noted a perceptible shadow cross his companion's expression.

“Of course,” Garak replied in a chipper tone that was not mirrored in his eyes.

The thing was, Julian could recognize the uncharacteristic display of vulnerability for what is was: if Garak hadn't wanted him to see the flicker of hurt he'd felt, he was more than capable of completely hiding it. The fact that he'd chosen not to tugged at his heart.

“If I may clarify, what I mean is, that while I always try to do what I can for my patients, there are certain reasonable limitations I _typically_ take.”

There. If Garak could stick him with open-ended remarks laden in subtext, so could he.

His companion's closed off expression softened, and the glowing smile he gave to Julian was not only pleased, but rather proud, and Julian could almost hear him say, ' _what an exceptionally quick study, you are, my dear Doctor.'_

“As I was saying,” Garak continued, “You have been _remarkably_ kind, and if I may, I would like to return the favor.”

“I assure you, you owe me nothing,” Julian waived, pulling a serious face. “I had only my own interests at heart, and trust me when I say they were entirely selfish.”

Garak's grin widened playfully. “Is that so? And what, pray tell, Doctor, was your motivation?”

“Well, where else am I going to find someone to dispel me of all this unfortunate indoctrination of my Federation upbringing?”

Garak chuckled warmly, settling back in his chair. “I can't think there would be too many volunteers as patient as I've been. Regardless, I would still like to somehow show my gratitude. What would you say to a new addition to your...somewhat deficient wardrobe?”

“Why am I not surprised by your offer?” Julian sighed, rolling his eyes. “You're always trying to find a way to _heal_ me of my 'abysmal' fashion sensibilities.”

Garak snorted. “ _'Sensibilities'?_ Not exactly the most fitting term to describe your peculiar sense of aesthetics. If you're going to insist on being seen in my company, we really must address the issue. After all, I do have a professional reputation to protect, Doctor. What must the general public think of my service whenever they see you in your civilian attire? I just hope they don't jump to the conclusion that I had anything to do with it.”

Julian combed his fingers back through his hair and let out an exasperated sigh. “You never give up, do you?”

Garak regarded him fondly, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah, but persistence, my dear Doctor, is the key to success.”

“I'll have to take your word for it,” Julian replied dryly, but no less fondly—

_Helplessly so, really._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't that Julian was necessarily avoiding Garak, per say, it was just that over the past few months, a lot had happened, and frankly, it was a little overwhelming. The emotional turmoil he'd felt in the wake of nearly losing Garak the first time had been nothing in comparison to the desolation he'd felt when the tailor had been shot by the Jem'Hadar soldier in the simulation. The Vorta's exercise had been designed to determine how the Starfleet officers would all respond to an attempt by the Dominion to gain a foothold in the Alpha Quadrant, measuring how much they'd be willing to sacrifice in order to avoid war—but in that moment, burning with cold, silent rage, war had been the only thing on his mind.

He'd been left profoundly shaken afterward, unable to look at his friend for quite a few days without seeing the haunting image of Garak's lifeless corpse slumped against the wall. They had resumed their weekly routine of course, meeting for lunch, talking about literature or whatever else came to mind, and all the while, Garak was none the wiser.

With some level of wariness, he approached his 30th birthday, a milestone age affixed with those negative connotations that had always seemed to endure in the vestigial subconscious of his race. He supposed it was something of an ancestral pathology, product of humanity's general obsession with, and celebration of youth, which of course, was a natural symptom of one's fear of the inevitable decline toward death. As a collective, the trait was an indelible signifier of their evolutionary struggle and one which Julian, regardless of his superior capacity for reasoning, was clearly not exempt from the experience of.

Still, it was only the most superficial of his actual concerns. Certainly it provided a safe decoy to excuse his sour mood; something to give credence to his gripe. Because, for some time, Julian had noted within himself, an unsettling feeling of growing discontent coupled with a strange listlessness; an uncomfortable sense of dissatisfaction that should have no basis in reality. By anyone's measure, Julian Bashir lived a rich and fascinating life and could boast many accomplishments— _so why did he feel like something was missing?_ It was like some kind of subcutaneous itch he could never quite scratch and it dogged him into the early hours of the morning and bled into his dreams. Inside the twisting, amorphous realm, he could feel it prodding and poking at him, begging for attention, but he was always just lucid enough to know that if he had looked at it too closely, he would be forced to face its reality.

He supposed it wasn't wholly unlike the body's immune response to the introduction of a foreign pathogen. It was a pervasive, insidious thing that he couldn't quite seem to shake and the more he tried to ignore it, the more his resistance seemed to flag—

It was exhausting.

The only consolation to the day had been when Garak had presented him with a new holonovel neatly wrapped in that garish, tacky little bow. Julian had blinked at the gift, surprised and touched by the gesture, (if not thrilled by its actual contents).

Not long after, he'd had a brief argument with the Lethean over biomemetic gel which had resulted in quite an unusual twist to the day. In a short span of time he'd aged to the cusp of death, all the while accompanied by various versions of his friends as interpreted by the Telepath's cursory extraction of his psyche. The counterfeits had been somewhat one-dimensional in their construction, with special emphasis placed on exaggerating each of those specific, respective traits most aptly representing those various aspects found within Julian's own personality. However, the one representation he'd had the most difficulty defining had been of Garak. The translation had seemed skewed, but then, in the end, he'd figured it out. Altovar had been parading as Garak all along, donning the mantle of Julian's own, personal _villain-in-pneuma._

But _why?_ He'd wondered, and the question had seemed to baffle Garak as well.

“ _You know, Doctor, what I find most fascinating about this entire incident is how your unconscious mind chose people you know to represent various parts of your personality—and what I find interesting is how your mind ended up casting me in the role of the villain.”_

But the thing was, Julian _hadn't_ done that, Altovar had, and he was beginning to understand why.

In the wake of Garak's near-death experience after his implant had malfunctioned, Julian had developed a healthy respect and admiration for the other man's endurance and determination—attributes which would later direct his subconscious role for Garak in the Vorta's simulation as the brave hero—a role which should have carried through to the Lethean's demonstration. However, the Telepath had nimbly plunged the depths of his subconscious, piece-mealing through the complex ambiguity of Julian's feelings which had developed in the wake of both of those prior incidences and had figured that the most effective way to manipulate him would be to corrupt his projection of Garak. For if Garak represented his strength, then by having the anthropomorphized symbol convince him hope was lost and he'd best give up, then surely he'd be inevitably inclined to agree, and most damning of all, wearing Garak's face, he'd certainly pose a more impressing influence.

It wasn't as if Julian was simply some mere sheep in the wolf's thrall, mercy to the man's particular brand of magnetism and chicanery, after all, they fought often and Julian had always stood his ground, sticking quite firmly to his principles. What it came down to was, with regard to the Cardassian/tailor/ex-spy-exile, in spite of his dubious past and perpetually cagey and enigmatic exterior, Julian knew he had a soft spot.

It wasn't merely just some sort of easy-going charity of spirit, but something more akin to the kind of indulgence one might feel for the flaws of one's beloved or kin. Or kindred spirit, perhaps. The more Julian thought about it, the more his skin prickled with discomfort, but he was helpless to resist the sheer elation he'd feel every time he'd catch a glimpse of one of those smiles Garak seemed to reserve specially for him—the kind that would spark a low heat in his belly and spike his pulse.

Then, not very long ago, he'd dropped off a pair of trousers that had needed a few minor alterations. Julian was somewhat accustomed to Garak's occasionally flirtatious edge that seemed to color the tone of their banter at times, and was therefore somewhat inured to it, coming to expect it to some extent, and thus, had usually been quite ready to casually deflect it. As he'd stood in Garak's fitting room, his guard had been up, his playful retort prepped on the tip of his tongue—expecting the suggestive, teasing lilt to the other man's grin, or perhaps even a hand that might linger for just a little too long to be entirely proper—but Garak had been fastidiously professional throughout.

In spite of this, Julian's breath had caught when the tailor had knelt to the floor before him, and he'd barely dared to exhale as he'd watched him quickly, deftly measure him. His touch had been impersonal and perfunctory, yet Julian had still felt himself shiver at the briefest, merest of contact and wonder after the look of studious control that seemed to shutter the tailor's expression. As Garak had scanned his inseam, Julian had discreetly examined the other man's face for any flicker of emotion, swallowing thickly at the faint but recognizable tightness around his mouth and the dark look of determination in his hooded eyes. He'd bitten the inside of his cheek, sweat beading over his brow as he'd watched Garak's sensor, gripped tightly in his hand, travel slowly up between his legs. It had taken every last ounce of self control to will himself inert as he'd felt that spitting hot coil of anticipation flare down to his groin. Dizzy from holding his breath for so long, he'd swayed a little and the tailor had reflexively reached up to steady him. When Julian had felt the graceful length of his fingers press into his hip, he'd let out the smallest of surprised gasps and Garak's eyes had snapped up to his, holding his gaze for what had seemed like an indeterminable age while the air crackled between them alive and electric.

Then finally, after a beat, Garak had cocked his head and quirked a familiar, easy grin—the kind that teetered somewhere between just left of wholly innocent and with a quick bounce of his eyebrows, Julian had exhaled an amused, exasperated sigh and helped Garak off his knees. After the tailor had left the fitting room to put away his instruments and allow Julian privacy while changing back into his uniform, he'd attempted to process what exactly had just transpired between them—he'd been relieved by the dissipated tension while at the same time, bewilderingly disappointed. Regardless, something had shifted between them from that moment on—a sort of new awareness and wariness of each other that hadn't previously existed.

It should have felt strained, but instead, it felt new and exciting...and even just a little dangerous. Whatever it was, it had enriched the depth of their exchanges, buoying their banter and enlivening their conversation. There was something different about the way Garak had been looking at him these days, cloaked with something a little reticent and a little speculative; calculating almost—but thoughtful and very, _very_ fond.

Then, on one particular afternoon, they'd been sharing lunch as usual, debating the merits of Shakespeare and Julian, on edge all morning and frankly for at least the last few months, had felt too acute a pang of discomfort at the poignancy of Garak's argument.

“ _I knew Brutus was going to kill Caesar in the first act, but Caesar didn't figure it out until the knife was in his back,”_ Garak had pointed out.

 _“That's what makes it a tragedy,_ ” Julian had countered, _“Caesar couldn't conceive that his best friend would plot to kill him.”_

Garak had shaken his head. _“Tragedy is not the word I'd use. Farce would be more appropriate. Supposedly, this man is supposed to be the leader of a great empire, a brilliant military tactician, and yet he can't see what's going on under his own nose.”_

There had been some kind of redirection of the underlying subtext, and suddenly, it had sounded to Julian's ears like some kind of accusation. As if Garak was attempting to call him out on his own willful ignorance. Even though, rationally, Julian knew he was being quite overly defensive and could reason that it was highly unlikely Garak had intended for him to construe anything he'd said that way, he still had bristled uncomfortably, and feeling a little like jumping out of his skin, he'd looked around a little desperately for any reason at all to excuse himself.

He'd done so a lot recently, and Garak had very much noticed and taken some mild offense.

“ _Doctor, are you in a hurry?”_ Garak had asked, a bit put out.

“ _I've got to get to the infirmary,”_ Julian had excused, _“I've a lot of work to do this afternoon.”_

“ _Oh, you're fortunate. I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with,”_ his companion had remarked, subtly conveying the fact that he had quite ample time to spare for Julian whom he'd clearly noted had not payed the same generosity for him of late.

Not interested in trying to formulate some kind of excuse he knew the ex-spy would be too clever to buy, he'd simply offered him an alternative: _“Maybe you could finish those trousers I dropped off last week,”_ Julian had replied, a little tongue-in-cheek.

“ _Tomorrow,”_ Garak had waved, before proceeding to huffily criticize the way he'd practically shoveled down his food, and Julian had apologized, excusing himself when much to his consternation, his companion had announced he was finished as well, despite abandoning almost an entire meal—admitting the fact that he'd been 'nibbling' on Delavian chocolates all morning. He'd then offered to bring some by the infirmary later, and just to finally escape, Julian had accepted the offer.

Then, naturally, because life on DS9 could never be accused of being dull, Garak's shop had exploded.

 

Julian's blood had pounded in his ears, his heart in his throat as he'd run into the smoking wreckage in desperate search of his friend, praying to any of the many higher powers that might be— _old gods, new gods, alien gods, whomever cared to listen_ —that Garak was safe. He'd found him collapsed among the debris, injured and rather worse for the wear, but a sight for sore eyes none the less.

“ _Are you alright?”_ Julian had demanded, yanking out his tricorder.

“ _As well as could be expected, but I'm afraid your pants won't be ready tomorrow after all,”_ Garak had rasped out, trying to make light of the situation.

Attempting to suss out who was behind the assassination attempt had proven a challenge as the Cardassian stubbornly failed to be cooperative, running them around in circles with his typical theatrics and dissimulation.

“ _Someone should do a study,_ ” Julian had remarked.

“ _A study?”_ Garak had asked.

“ _To try and figure out why some people can't bring themselves to trust anyone, even if it's in their own best interest,”_ he'd explained, a little miffed. _“Have you ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf?”_

But then, Garak's philosophy was that the truth is just an excuse for a lack of imagination. It was maddening, but it was as much as he could ever expect from the man, wasn't it? Still, he'd been leery when he'd heard that Garak would be taking off in a runabout with Odo to confront Tain. Julian had caught up to him just before departing, not really sure if he was serving any real purpose by being there other than to soothe his own nerves.

“ _I hope you know what you're doing, Garak,”_ he'd warned, feeling agitated and scared.

Garak had agreed with that sentiment and Julian, hoping to sound helpful rather than desperate to prolong these last few minutes together in the airlock before allowing Garak to run off on some possibly perilous mission he might not return from, had asked if there was anything his friend needed him to do while he was gone.

“ _Like what?”_ Garak had asked.

“ _I don't know,”_ Julian had stumbled out, _“Any unfinished business...?”_

He'd inwardly cringed the moment the words had left his mouth. With the precarious way they'd been dancing around each other lately, Garak might likely interpret that as some kind of invitation to... _talk about it._ Garak looked at him curiously, a hint of amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“ _Actually, Doctor, there is something.”_

Julian had swallowed nervously, steeling himself for the unknown.

“ _If you go into my quarters and examine the bulkhead next to the replicator, you'll notice there's a false panel-”_ he'd paused, waiting until he was sure he'd captured Julian's interest and of course, surprised by the unexpected direction toward a safer topic that seemed to instead tease of a brand new mystery, he was all ears and Garak, assured of that, continued to tell him that behind this panel was a compartment containing an isolinear rod, and that if he wasn't back within seventy eight hours, he wanted Julian to take that rod and eat it.

“ _Eat it?”_ Julian exclaimed, sure Garak was having him on. “You're joking.”

The Cardassian had confirmed it leaving Julian equal parts amused and perplexed. Perhaps he'd submit that it could have been some kind of stab at the fact that he had a tendency to always suspect Garak's motivations were a degree more devious and convoluted than they actually were, but there had been no real intended bite behind the remark, and to prove it, the grin Garak had shared with him afterward had been light-hearted and forgiving.

“ _Very funny,”_ Julian had sighed, shaking his head.

“ _I thought so. The answer to your question, Doctor, is no. There's nothing you can do for me while I'm away—”_

And what Julian had also heard in that statement was: _“-and we both knew that would be my answer, so why are you actually here?”_

But he'd at least come prepared to circumvent that explanation. Garak stared down with a small frown at the box of Delavian chocolates he'd brought to him earlier, held out in Julian's hand.

“ _But these were meant for you,”_ he'd insisted, reluctantly accepting the gift back with a slightly crestfallen expression.

“ _I know. I thought you might need them more than I do,”_ Julian had explained. Garak's eyes had brightened with understanding (although what precisely he'd decided he'd suddenly understood eluded Julian) and he'd peered back at him wonderingly, as if regarding him from a renewed perspective.

“ _Thank you,”_ Garak had replied softly.

Julian had smiled reassuringly and wished him good luck, his heart heavy in his chest as Garak stepped out of the airlock and the door hummed shut behind him.

There had been too many words left unspoken between them, and Julian wasn't exactly sure what those words even were. But, he'd soon have a clearer conception of that.

One evening, Miles had seen fit to join him for a beer and a round of darts. Over the past year or so, he'd rather taken a shine to the Chief Engineer. Miles wasn't always reliably good-natured or necessarily easy-going, but he had a blunt sense of humor and a certain straightforwardness Julian found refreshing. Their rapport was light and never muddled in obscure riddles or deflections; they could laugh or joke about work and their colleagues or sports or anything really and most importantly, Miles had a way of keeping Julian grounded.

It was also relaxing to enjoy the company of a friend he didn't share any more than wholly platonic feelings for. Jadzia was amazing and fun and fascinating and full of many lifetime's worth of sound wisdom, but there was always that underlying core of wistful admiration that jostled awake every time they talked and it wasn't something he could fully quell enough to be entirely comfortable around her. And then, _obviously there was Garak_ , and that situation was so maddeningly complex he supposed it was part of the reason why he'd needed a friend like Miles in the first place.

Even thinking about Garak left him with an uneasy feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach along with his beer, and he supposed there had to have been something in his expression that had prompted the engineer to ask if he was alright.

“ _Ah, it's nothing,”_ he'd dismissed, attempting to convince his friend with an easy smile that might've fallen a little short, but to Mile's credit, he hadn't pressed the issue (as either Jadzia or Garak might have done). Instead, he'd diverted them back to another topic.

Eventually however, the subject came back around, if in a less direct way. _“That new dabo girl is pretty attractive, aye?”_ Miles had nudged, smirking a little. _“And I think she's been tryin' to catch your eye all night. Why don't you go talk to her?”_

Julian sucked in a breath, sparing a brief, conciliatory glance in her direction before returning his attention to his hands clasped around his drink. _“She's pretty,”_ he'd admitted, unable to keep the tone of his voice from sounding rather gloomy about it.

He'd expected Miles would point it out or even try to get him to open up, but once again, he'd carefully curved the conversation sideways—not fully off subject this time, but back onto himself instead. _“Did you know that just the other day I caught a lady's fancy?”_

This succeeded in piquing Julian's interest. _“Really?”_

Miles had frowned, a touch offended. _“Well, you don't have to look so shocked by it. It does happen sometimes, you know. Not every woman who walks aboard this station immediately falls for your stupid smile.”_

“ _Who was it?”_

“ _A Cardi, of all people, if you can even believe it. Another engineer, in fact. But you know, she was a real looker actually, and smart as a whip, to boot.”_

“ _I never would've imagined hearing you say so,”_ Julian had remarked.

“ _Well, obviously, I never would've thought so initially. All that gray skin and those lizardy scales? But on her it looked kind of nice, you know?”_

“ _I bet you wouldn't dream of mentioning that in front of Keiko.”_

Miles had frozen for a second, as if only just remembering his wife and glanced around the bar with a paranoid little frown. Finally, assured she was probably somewhere across the station far out of earshot, he'd shrugged. “ _Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't acknowledge that a lady looks alright.”_

“ _Just means you can't do anything about it,”_ Julian had taunted.

Miles snorted, waving his hand. _“Not as if you would either these days. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're still hung up on the lieutenant, but that hadn't stopped you in the past,”_ he'd pointed out, hitting a little too close to home for comfort.

“ _Anyway, at first I thought she hated me, right? All we did was argue. And then she got it in her head to make a pass at me—in that roundabout way Cardassian's have, of course, so I didn't really pick up on it until she started going on about how she was fertile and could give me plenty of children if that's what I wanted.”_

“ _Oh dear,”_ Julian had chuckled, amused by his friend's plight. “ _What did you do?”_

“ _Well, of course I immediately informed her that under no uncertain terms was I in want of a child or another wife for that matter, as I was quite content with the one I already had! I told her I was flattered, and I really felt bad, but it was not my fault. How could I have known? I thought at worst she hated me and at best she barely tolerated me. All we did was argue. But then, apparently, things are a little different on Cardassia.”_

“ _How so?”_ Julian had asked with a nervous, sinking feeling.

Miles had given him a funny look and shaken his head. _“You really don't know, do you? I mean, you're the one who spends all his time with one, you'd think you'd have some kind of idea. Doesn't your spy-friend ever explain anything?”_

“ _Not if he can help it,”_ Julian had muttered.

Miles blew out a breath. _“Alright, well, see the whole thing turned out to be one giant, walloping cross-cultural misunderstanding. Because Cardassian's view a generally antagonistic behavior toward one another as a form of er...conveying one's interest...sort of like tugging on the girl you like's pigtails I guess. It's all a precursor to courtship which happens to entail rather rigorous intellectual and philosophical debate. Supposedly, there is nothing quite as 'enticing' as the battle of wits and words, from what I understand.”_

“ _Is that all?”_ Julian had asked a little fearfully.

“ _Not exactly, but that seems to be the bulk of it. From there, the prospective mates share meals and trade small items of personal value...gift tokens of their affection to one another, little things that they think might be appreciated.”_

“ _Well, you appear to be a fount of knowledge on the subject,”_ Julian had muttered dismally.

“ _You want my honest opinion, Julian?”_

“ _If I must.”_

“ _Be careful.”_

And Julian had known exactly what Miles had meant even if he hadn't explicitly come right out and said it. Although whether it was to be careful of Garak's intentions or his past, or whether it was merely to be mindful of his own heart, always wary, yet all too eager to fall in love, he couldn't say.

But he wasn't _in love_ with Garak. That was utterly preposterous, wasn't it? Certainly his feelings were... _stronger_ for the man than he would care to admit to, and he couldn't deny there was an element of, _well,_ attraction. Plain and simple.

It wasn't as if Julian had never found another man attractive before—he'd always considered himself rather game for anyone so long as they proved to be interesting and interested, and as long as such an individual happened to be attractive and passably intelligent, or at least moderately clever enough to be stimulating (because Julian really did relish a good post-coital conversation along with his cuddle), they typically stood a chance. It was just that it had always been a rather rare occurrence to find himself looking twice at another man, and even then, the experiences had usually been fleeting; limited to a passing flirtation and the occasional one-night-stand. He'd never felt anything remotely akin to romantic feelings for anyone other than women. Men were, as a whole, in Julian's opinion, often far too coarse, and never truly as compelling. There were always those individuals that seemed to fall toward the more feminine side of the spectrum of gender expression, but he'd never found that such lisping, delicately cloying mannerisms held much appeal either. Of course, Garak was somewhat of an outlier in that regard; effete without being effeminate, coquettish without being a simpering idiot—and, objectively speaking, undeniably handsome.

He wasn't the only one who'd felt the charged air of sexual tension hovering in the currents between them, surely. He'd seen the tell of frustration in Garak's face—heard how shallow his breath had become, counted the quickening rate of his pulse through the man's fingertips pressed against his hip that day in the fitting room. And how many other examples could he draw from?

Julian could have dismissed all of this as utter tripe; something created by his lonely, bored imagination to file away for boring and lonelier nights, (only, not that we would have allowed himself to make use of that option, there was no conduct quite so disrespectful as making one's friend the unknowing and unconsenting fodder for one's private relief. He wasn't without ethics or conscience, after all.)

Alright, so he could accept that there was an attraction—and likely a mutual one at that, if his own observations combined with the new information gleaned from Miles' experience had any merit. But then, what if it were more? What if Garak had been quietly courting him in the fashion of his own culture and had simply hoped Julian would be quick enough to eventually catch on and catch up?

Could it be Garak was merely refraining from fully enlightening Julian out of fear of upsetting the only real, solid friendship he had here? That made sense. Julian wasn't so keen on that idea himself. But was Garak afraid of telling him because Julian might reject his advances or because he was afraid if their relationship ended in less than cordial terms, that it may be impossible to repair their original friendship?

And then it occurred to him, that for a second, he'd been entertaining the idea of an actual _relationship_ with the man—would Garak even _want_ that? He was such an intensely private man, whom guarded his secrets with an almost fierce jealousy. In that same vein, could Julian afford such intimacy himself? He had his own secrets to keep, and he doubted he'd be able to keep them from Garak for very long, and how could he ever be certain he could _trust_ the ex-spy, ever longing to return to his own world?

Julian's secret could be used as leverage not only against him, but against _Starfleet._

And an insidious, hateful part of his brain that had always whispered self-doubts; that voice which had always said: _“No one could have ever loved you as you were before they 'fixed' you, and no one will ever love you if they know the truth,”_ also said: _“This was his plan all along, to lure you into his fold like a lamb for the slaughter.”_

Fortunately, Julian took this with a grain of salt. Because, Garak had most certainly detected his interest in him long before Julian had identified it himself and he would have definitely exploited that to his advantage by now if he'd ever had any intention to do so.

And maybe, Julian was giving Garak too much credit. Perhaps he wasn't absolutely sure of Julian after all. For all intents and purposes, at least according to Mile's description, he'd been pursuing Julian for some time without any real substantial evidence that his feelings were reciprocated.

Julian knew he was probably over-analyzing everything, but he really needed to figure out exactly what he wanted from Garak, and no matter how many scenarios he ran through, the answer still eluded him.

Which returning to the original point, was why he was not avoiding him, per say, but certainly not going out of his way to make too much time for him either.

He no longer knew quite how to act around the other man now that he had some insight into what was going on between them, and he wasn't exactly sure that stoking the flame would prove to either of their benefit in the long run.

Julian sort of felt like throwing the entire deck in the air and waiting to see where the cards landed. In the mean time, there were always the holosuites to escape to.

After all, he was rather eager to try out that James Bond themed one.

 

<~>


	3. Chapter 3

 

The weeks following the removal of his implant had been arduous, to say the least. Garak had recovered quickly from the surgery itself, but the withdrawal had been just short of incapacitating. Although the good Doctor had finally consented to let him out of the infirmary, he'd kept him under close surveillance and on a steady dose of antidepressants to regulate his acute residual neurochemical imbalance. Still, it was as if everything he'd ever deemed so intolerable about life on the station in the first place had suddenly returned to torture him ten fold. While finishing up his orders at his shop had been something of a welcome reprieve, at times it was all Garak could do to keep from throwing down his work in a fit of rage as his damned defective, trembling fingers would once again slip a stitch. Most nights had found him shivering uncontrollably under a mountain of blankets when he wasn't emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the nearest available receptacle, and if he wasn't pacing a hole into the floor of his room, he could often be found stalking the lonely upper decks of the promenade until eventually Odo would page the Doctor to come fetch his patient and escort him back to bed.

The whole affair had taken quite the toll on his ego. Garak, unaccustomed to permitting anyone to see even the slightest hint of infirmity or vulnerability, was at the unwilling mercy of his misery and the one individual he'd sought most to impress had been the very same one to see him at his utter worst. The Doctor had been a veritable saint throughout his convalescence, tending to him with kind words and gentle hands and at times, all Garak had wanted to do was either strangle the man or jump off the nearest ledge. He would tell himself it wasn't charity or compassion. The Doctor had a job to do, that was all. Reminding himself of the fact was the only reason he hadn't shoved his friend out the door and dead bolted it behind him—(or at least activated his old Terok Nor override codes to prevent Bashir's access.)

Resigned to endure the Doctor's impromptu visits to his quarters at random intervals, for the sake of the minuscule degree of pride he still had left, he'd always made sure to look at least moderately presentable regardless of the hour; his hair neatly combed, his clothes unrumpled and his personal hygiene unoffensive. The latter of which would have been something of a _herculean feat_ (a rather apt Terran term he'd learned recently) if not for the sonic showers; one of the only conveniences of life on the station he was genuinely thankful for. Sometimes, he could even convince the Doctor to join him for a cup of tea or a round of chess, and he'd try not to take it too personally when the young man would too obviously let him win, and whenever Garak had suffered a particularly rough day, Bashir had been sensitive enough to appear as if he hadn't observed as much, declining to comment on the fact even if his concern had been written in his eyes and in the doting way he'd assist him with a hand on his elbow or a jog over to the replicator to refill his teacup.

It was in those small, almost insignificant things his friend would do that had given Garak pause; that would stir the small flutter of warmth in his chest and cause him to occasionally ponder after things he had no business even considering. _What was this,_ he would occasionally wonder—this inchoate feeling stirring within him—this... _undefinable,_ nebulous thing that shivered and rattled in its cage only for Julian Bashir? But then he'd snap the lid back onto the jar and push it to the back most shelves of his mind. After all, what could be the advantage to indulging the idea of such impossible things?

Garak wasn't good at honesty, not even when it came to himself, however, he would never deny the simple fact that he'd always found the young man exceptionally attractive. From the first time he'd seen the new Starfleet officer being shown around the station he couldn't help but think him handsome. It had to have been his eyes, dark and dancing with such _vibrant_ curiosity as he'd gazed around the station that had first truly grabbed Garak's attention. Those eyes that shined so expressively and with such passion—that would crinkle in the corners as he'd laugh and always seemed to soak everything in with such candid greed; as if they were always trying to feed some unquenchable hunger in the vast abyss of his magnificent mind—

 _Who looked at anything like that,_ he'd wondered at the time, suddenly realizing with a fierce, inexplicable desperation how much he wanted for this man to look at _him_ that way. _I can be interesting too,_ Garak knew, and he'd resolved to not only capture Julian Bashir's attention as the young man had captivated his, but to _keep_ it.

All things considered, he'd never found Terran humanoids particularly alluring: no distinctive, defining features—like a stripped down canvas; a base source for all the other inhabitants of the galaxy to pullulate. Yet, although Julian was as unremarkably smooth-skinned as any of his kind, the exotic shade of his complexion reminded Garak of the warm hue of the rolling dunes of a Cardassian desert. A silly, romantic analogy, but one he couldn't help but make none the less. More to note, beneath that golden exterior was a slender frame, which upon first impression—disguised beneath the unflattering cloth of his standard issued uniform, could not inspire comparison to any of the Doctor's Terran Greek's, but under Garak's keener eye, he'd observed the tremendous control the younger man used to conceal the truth of his impressive and rather _unusual_ strength and quick reflexes. Almost like a Vulcan, although their wiry strength was attributable to their planet's considerably higher gravity, and as far as Garak knew regarding Bashir's physiology and past—(knowing rather little that is, considering the man's furtiveness on the subject)—these aspects were definitely quite extraordinary. Although, the Doctor certainly made a concerted effort to hide the fact. When eyes were upon him, his steps were measured so as to appear unassuming, even a little gawky and awkward, and yet, there were times he moved with the athletic grace of a _Brangwa_ —

It was similar to the almost intentional inconspicuousness by which the Doctor modulated his vocabulary and simplified his syntax, emulating normalcy as if he'd been rehearsing how to do so for a very long time and Garak sometimes wondered if the young man wasn't actually some kind of exceptionally convincing, well-constructed android. But then, he'd seen him come back haggard from hard work and bruised from long missions. It was enough to dispel that particular theory, but never enough to quite convince him that Julian Bashir was without secrets.

It had taken a couple of years to observe all of this but again, even from the beginning, Garak had suspected their was just _something_ different about the man and he knew he had to meet him.

Fortunately, (in this case), Garak's reputation had a way of proceeding him, and for once, this had worked in his favor. Sure enough, the Doctor _had_ noticed him—getting him to introduce himself, however, had been a whole other matter entirely. He would catch the young man watching him from the corner of his eye when he'd think no one would catch him at it—and not quite as suspiciously as Garak's infamy would typically warrant. Instead, Bashir had seemed _fascinated_ more than anything else and Garak had flattered himself foolishly into thinking that might imply _interest._

Garak _was_ interested. He'd been so incredibly bored and his bed had been cold for such a long time, and even though he'd seen the way the young man's eyes would follow so eagerly after that pretty Lieutenant, the joined Trill had never shown any sign that she'd reciprocated, so, having grown terribly impatient and having literally nothing to lose (at the time), Garak had introduced himself.

How delightful the young man's reaction had been! So flustered and tongue-tied and shy! How utterly charming Garak had found him to be! Yet, upon later reflection, he would cringe upon reviewing his own uncouth behavior—to lack so little subtlety, so little _finesse_ —if any other Cardassian had been present to witness such an unforgivable display they would surely have been appalled. Despite all his genteel breeding and training and extensive talent for nuance, it had all somehow failed him. Garak hadn't acted so reckless in years—not since his first childhood infatuation—a doomed thing _that_ had proven to be, and having learned his lesson, he'd guarded himself from making such mistakes in the future. But then all his armor had come crashing down around him in the presence of this ridiculous, naive young man—it was as if he was actually some kind of _incubus—_ that mythical seducer from that ancient Akkadian poetry the Doctor had once lent to him.

Still, while the Doctor may have been very intelligent, he was after all, _only human_ , and perhaps he hadn't picked up on the signals which would have been more than explicit to anyone with a passing familiarity in Cardassian customs, something that had not gone undetected by a few of the rather scandalized Bajoran spectators dining nearby.

Of course, the scheduled lunches they shared in public, the items they exchanged, the gifts occasionally given to each other, the heated debates, the posturing and the teasing —all rather common place occurrences between friends in so many other cultures, is simply not done between Cardassians unless engaged in courtship. While there is no formal declaration of intent, a prospective mate can't misunderstand such obvious cues. But, Garak had supposed that while the Doctor continued to remain ignorant, there wasn't any harm to it.

Only, Garak had begun to feel a little uncomfortable perpetuating the charade. It had been fun at first— _amusing even—_ to flirt so outrageously with the poor, oblivious young man.

But he couldn't actually pursue him. There were so many, _many_ reasons. For one, there was always the looming, peripheral threat of Tain, and all Garak's many enemies. Caring was not an advantage. _'Always burn your bridges behind you'._   Anyone he'd let too close would be in danger. Easy leverage. But really, he'd been so stupidly, blatantly obvious, he may as well have already signed the Doctor's death warrant, and the only peace of mind he'd finally decided he'd felt about it was the fact that the Starfleet insignia on his friend's chest meant that anyone stupid enough to attempt to entrap Garak in such a way, would bring down the wrath of the Federation on their heads.

So that left the fact that Garak was an old, washed up exile-turned tailor with nothing to offer and that Julian Bashir, was very unlikely even inclined to consider him a potential prospect which left him with little else to pursue other than friendship. Thus, he'd made due. But then, there had been that scorching moment in the fitting room when there had been a definite flicker of _something_ in the young man's eyes and Garak couldn't quite remember how to breathe. If there had been anything even faintly resembling a signal of consent he might have taken him right then and there. And it had led him to consider that perhaps there _had_ been something building between them for awhile—perhaps the Doctor had felt it too—perhaps this _could_ happen after all.

Yet, he couldn't be sure, so Garak decided to test the waters...wait patiently to see how his friend might respond to a little more recognizable flirtation, familiar to what he might be accustomed to. And then, in the airlock before he'd left with Odo to find Tain, Julian had given him back the chocolates and Garak had inwardly groaned. Had the gesture really been such a faux-pas? Had he really managed to miss the mark so badly?

But then... _perhaps not._ His friend had given them back as a _gift_ in his own way, saying that Garak might need them more. He wasn't wrong. Anytime Garak had to think about Tain, let alone deal with him put him in a terrible state. Tain had offered to accept him back, not to forgive, but to forget—to allow Garak the chance to prove himself again, to be allowed to _go home._

And it had all been so tempting, that for a second, he'd been willing to give up everything just to see Cardassia again. He'd bitterly told himself that he'd been deluding himself if he ever thought Julian might return his feelings. He even had been willing to compromise his own moral code when he'd reluctantly agreed to interrogate Odo—to _torture_ him.

“ _Tell me, is there one person in this universe you do care for? One person who's more than just an interesting puzzle to be solved? Is there, Odo? Anyone?”_

But the question may as well have been rhetorical.

“ _It's all right Garak. It's my fault. I should've known you'd develop feelings for these people you've been living with for the past few years,”_ Tain had said to him, _and he didn't know the half of it_.

After they'd returned back home to the station, Garak had drawn in a breath of amazement. It was the first time he'd ever accepted this place as 'home' and the realization was bittersweet. Odo had forgiven him and even made an offer of friendship—one forged in mutual misery, homesickness and understanding, but of friendship none the less, which was far more than he'd deserved, and then...there was Julian's dear, kind smile, his eyes brimming with worry and relief and Garak had never before been happier to be stuck in this wretched place.

At their next lunch, the Doctor would confess to him that he'd missed him. Not that he'd said so outright, but it had certainly been inferred when he'd regaled to him the story of how he'd talked the Chief Engineer's ear off and bored him to tears. Clearly the unfortunate man had been a poor substitute for Garak and Garak couldn't have been more pleased to hear so. But then, perhaps it had been a small lapse in judgment to imply as much. Or perhaps the error had been in the way Garak had uncharacteristically shown his hand, admitting to his friend that he'd missed him too—that perhaps they might attempt to catch up by having dinner later that evening—no? Other plans? _How about the next night? The night after that?_

The Doctor had leaned away—leaning back in his chair rather awkwardly and given him an even more awkward excuse. _“Maybe some other time,”_ Garak had fed for him, to protect them both from further embarrassment. _“Certainly,”_ the young man had stiffly replied, staring down determinedly at his plate, at his hands—anywhere but at Garak. If anything could reveal that Bashir had finally understood where this thing between them had been heading, it was this, and clearly, they were _not_ on the same page.

 _Idiot, what were you thinking?_ Garak had cursed himself for the blunder—for misreading the situation—and then later, for creating the rift.

The weeks following that ill-fated afternoon, Garak saw little of the Doctor. The young man would pop his head into his shop, cheery as ever with an apology ready for why he just couldn't clear his schedule to make their lunch this week. All the while, much to his growing consternation, he couldn't help but notice Bashir could find time in his oh, so busy plans for O'Brien. They'd been seeing a lot of each other recently: grabbing a beer at Quark's, playing darts or tennis—not that Garak hadn't seen it for himself, but he'd heard about it after plying Quark with enough slips of latinum.

Julian had made himself quite elusive, making sure they wouldn't accidentally run into each other...going out of his way to avoid him. It was beneath him. Childish. Petty. _Cowardly._

The snub ached like a raw wound every time he caught a glimpse of the Doctor in passing, every time he'd pointedly pretend he hadn't seen him and changed directions, walking a pace quicker to get away.

Garak had had enough. It was one thing to get cold feet and reject the potential for their relationship to develop into something more, it was even somewhat understandable that the situation had resulted in such discomfort that a little distance might be necessary, but it was another thing entirely to outright walk away from several years of a solid friendship that had served them both so well.

For days, he'd tried to catch the Doctor for a word, but if he hadn't been occupied with patients, there had been O'Brien to contend with, and the Engineer had proven a loyal accomplice and stubborn gate keeper. It was infuriating and insulting and Garak had felt rather humiliated being led to jump through all these hoops. 

He'd been resolved to march right into the airlock and confront Bashir when he'd returned to the station after his latest mission when he'd learned his runabout had crashed. The crew hadn't been able to successfully make contact with either their Doctor or Chief Engineer and Garak had been frantic with worry for days. He could be lost or dead somewhere—and even if the man wanted nothing more to do with him, why did it matter? Garak had never really gotten the chance to ever tell him— _anything._ Not how much he meant to him, nor how grateful he was for giving him a chance when nobody else would even look at him let alone talk to him with anything other than a distrusting sneer or an uncomfortable explanation of some kind of shirt they were looking to order, with one eye on the book of patterns and another on the exit. And now? He might never see him again.

He could barely concentrate on anything and finally Odo had, in that sympathetic and somewhat uncomfortably intuitive way of his, joined him for a mostly silent lunch. Neither of them ate anything—(not that the changeling ever ate anything), but his company and his quiet support had been appreciated, and Garak, feeling a little maudlin about everything, had told him as much, because frankly, apparently anyone could just up and vanish at any given time and who knew when Odo might simply melt into a pool and slip down into the vents never to be seen again.

When the the Doctor and O'Brien had returned— _safe, thankfully,_ Garak couldn't help but notice they weren't quite as... _chummy_ as before and he wasn't exactly sure what to make of it. Perhaps he could use their recent, inexplicable estrangement to get the Doctor to warm back up to him—at least enough to face him—

But to his utter dismay, now Bashir was more impossible to find than ever, and that was quite a mean feat considering just whom he was evading. O'Brien, when asked, was rather tight-lipped about everything as expected but admitted he hadn't seen much of their mutual friend/ex-friend either as of late, and wasn't quite sure where he'd been going off to. He wasn't in his room, nor the infirmary, nor in ops, nor in any of his other usual haunts—or unusual ones for that matter.

Finally, Jadzia had seen to take pity on him and tell him that the Doctor had recently acquired a new holosuite program and she'd supposed that was where he'd been dashing off to so often lately. Garak had grinned to himself as he'd hacked the mainframe right from outside the holodeck, and no one stopped him from entering the suite once he'd overwritten the security code.

Quark's pocket book must have been feeling a little heavy these days. Garak's certainly had been feeling a little lighter, but then, he wouldn't want to ruin the sleek lines of such a classy tuxedo.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basically just rewatching every episode of every season of DS9 right now to make sure I don't miss anything vital to the evolution of their relationship.
> 
> Also to clarify, because I can see where this might be confusing, shortly before 'Our Man Bashir' is the episode, 'Hippocratic Oath' and O'Brien totally pulls a dick move to save Bashir's life, but it's still really shitty, and they totally agree to take a bro-break for a couple days to cool down.


	4. Chapter 4

He leaned in, and just as scripted, she fell into his arms. Then, as they kissed, Julian suddenly heard the sound of someone clapping.

He turned, following the direction of the applause to the other side of the room only to find Garak, wearing a period tuxedo like his own and an amused grin, casually leaning against a card table.

“Who's that?” Caprice asked.

Julian glanced back at the hologram with an annoyed frown. “An uninvited guest,” he replied loudly enough for Garak to hear. Leaving her at the bar, he stalked over to his intruder whom had the audacity to greet him with nothing less than a look of sheer, unbridled glee.

“Nice tux,” Julian dryly approved. “Now get out." 

Garak frowned a little petulantly. “But Doctor, I've only just arrived.”

“Garak, breaking into a holosuite during someone's program is not only rude, it's illegal. I should call Odo and have you arrested.”

Garak blinked, appearing rather taken aback by the terseness of his tone. “What an extreme reaction that would be,” he exclaimed. “You must be quite embarrassed by this program.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” Julian sputtered angrily. “I'm annoyed that you've intruded on my privacy.”

Having made his point, he spun back around to march back toward the bar, stepping over the sheets of broken glass. Naturally, Garak followed, not at all discouraged by his less than congenial reception. 

“Privacy, Doctor? I'd say it goes far deeper than that.”

Julian stopped in his tracks, turning back around with an exasperated grimace, waiting for the man's inevitable explanation. 

Garak didn't disappoint. “Ever since you received this new program, you've been spending virtually all of your free time in the holosuite. But you haven't told anyone what the program is,” he remarked, looking around in fascination.

Julian paused for a second, not quite unable to miss the actual frustration underlying Garak's exaggerated show of curiosity and concern, however, bristling with indignation and embarrassment at having been caught quite red-handed right smack dab in the middle of his little game of make-believe, cast in a role the ex-spy could boast very real, personal experience of, didn't inspire in him too much sympathy. Whatever perceived injustice his friend was obviously prickling with, could more than amply be recouped at the expense of Julian's pride. He scowled imagining just how Garak's ego must be positively swelling from the unintentional flattery of it all. 

More saliently to the point, he wasn't accountable to Garak and he didn't owe him _any_ explanations.

“ _Am I supposed to?_ ” 

“No, no!” The tailor assured, holding up his hands defensively. “ _No._ But you're a— _forgive me—_ “ he prefaced, placing a placating hand on Julian's arm, “-a _talkative_ man, and it's _so_ unusual for you to have secrets.”

Julian could have laughed. That was a bald-faced lie if ever he'd heard one _._ If anyone on the station even remotely suspected he might be hiding something, it was certainly _Garak._

“I must've picked up the habit from you,” he huffed in a hurry to cut this conversation off at its head. “Now, if you'll excuse me-”

Garak, of course, had no intention of giving up. “Is this fantasy of yours really _that_ revealing of your _inner psyche_?”

“ _What?_ ” Julian demanded, dumbfounded by his gall.

Garak took a wide step over the shattered glass on the floor, bridging the gap, leaving but mere inches between them. Unwilling to back down, Julian stood his ground and for a long, tense second, the ex-spy's sharp, piercing eyes searched his own as if he were sizing him up, gauging his prey, daring him to tuck tail and flee. Not giving his interrogator the satisfaction, Julian held his stance, mirroring his challenge.

Garak peered at him speculatively. “Is that why you're so protective? Afraid I might learn some _humiliating_ secret about the _real_ Julian Bashir?”

The resounding answer to that question was: _yes._ Julian's hands closed into fists at his side. _Yes,_ he was afraid of that.

Initially, he'd ordered this program in pursuit of some casual, escapist amusement; a satisfying way to unwind after a long, stressful day. He'd always been rather intrigued by the spy genre, after all. However, his recent foray into virtual reality had more to do with _escaping_ actual reality than unwinding from it. So, _yes,_ he was using this as a coping mechanism to effectively distract himself from dwelling over certain, rather recent revelations regarding certain rather infuriating ex-spies—whom currently just so happened to be cutting a little too close to the quick.

Additionally, the program had served to provide Julian with an easy, guilt-free way to work off some of his more _pent up_ feelings by offering a generous selection of quite lovely honeypots and damsels in distress. There always was included, an option to switch the preset gender of the primary player-character's prospective romantic paramours, but this wasn't something he could quite bring himself to take advantage of, leery of how bedding another man—even a fictional one bearing no resemblance to the one in front of him, might prove too poignant a reminder of why he'd been so prone to opt for the cold showers in the recent mornings over the sonic variety. And at the moment, enduring such unwanted, intimate proximity to the flesh and blood object of his existential crisis was doing Julian no favors.

They were so close, he could practically taste the other man's cologne and it occurred to him that Garak could likely hear his palpable anxiety through his blood pressure alone.

“This is just fantasy,” Julian explained, trying to keep from sounding too defensive. “I'm not hiding anything.”

“If you have nothing to hide, then why _not_ let me stay?” Garak insisted, tilting his chin imploringly.

Julian swallowed thickly, his mouth going a little dry as he he realized they were at just the right angle to kiss and too easily, he found himself mentally closing the gap. He imagined Garak might taste a bit like his breath, which carried just the slightest, stale hint of red-leaf tea, and too late to stop himself, he found his eyes flickering down to the other man's mouth. Unfortunately, the ex-spy hadn't missed the inopportune, momentary direction of his gaze.

Garak lifted a ridged brow, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he regarded Julian with a wide grin.

“Alright,” Julian begrudgingly surrendered, cringing a little as Garak's face lit up victoriously. “But—I've only got another two hours before I go on duty and I want to enjoy myself. So, keep quiet and don't rain on my parade.”

“Your parade?” Garak asked, perplexed.

Julian pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Never mind.”

“Don't worry, Doctor, “ his friend assured, “I can be quite discreet. You'll barely know I'm here.”

“Good.”

“But if I may make one observation-”

“ _Garak-_ ” Julian groaned.

“I just wanted to point out that your lovely companion is leaving.”

Julian turned around to watch the red-gowned back end of the buxom hologram saunter out.

“Odd, she seemed so interested in your advances only a moment ago,” Garak noted in amusement, “I wonder what scared her off?”

Julian frowned back at the other man, unimpressed.

“ _Oh, no!_ I _do_ apologize. You _must_ be incensed. In fact, if I were in your shoes, I would...grab a bottle of champagne and _shoot me._ ”

The utter sarcasm dripping off his tongue was not lost on Julian, nor was the self-congratulating grin that stole over his fake look of apology.

“I can see I'm going to regret this already.”

Garak gave him his most award-winning smile and slapped him on the back. “Come on, Doctor, we're going to have a _wonderful_ time. After all, what could _possibly go wrong?”_

What _had_ gone wrong, was that Sisko, Dax, Miles, Kira and Worf had all been on their way back from a conference together only to discover their runabout had been sabotaged. However, just as they had been in the process of getting beamed out, the whole thing had exploded, trapping their patterns in the transporter buffer. Unfortunately, the immense amount of data in the neural network caused the power to go out when their patterns were being saved, and consequently, the images of the crew had somehow been stored in the holosuite's memory bank.

Long story short, he and Garak were stuck in the holoprogram with all the safeties turned off until Eddington found a way to transfer back the signatures to the transporter, Julian kissed the girl, (Dax), Garak pretended to take this in stride, but then proceeded to be snotty and bait him until they got into yet another philosophical... _disagreement,_ and then, when he'd threatened to end the program—Julian, not sure whether to believe him or not, had threatened to shoot him.

Garak's look of surprise when he'd actually pulled the trigger though had been...admittedly satisfying.

The bullet had only grazed Garak of course, Julian's aim was always perfect. Interestingly, instead of being upset, the ex-spy had been absurdly proud of him, leaving him as utterly exasperated and bewildered as ever. Finally, he saved the day by activating the laser, blasting away the Earth and all its inhabitants in an unprecedented display of unpredictability, and by the time Eddington and Rom successfully managed to extract and essentially reconstitute the crew, Julian was quite ready for it all to be over. Although the game had ended and only the two of them remained, Julian had left the program running.

“Interesting,” Garak mused. “You saved the day by destroying the world.”

“I bet they didn't teach you that in the Obsidian Order,” Julian remarked, casually leaning against the wall between the windows.

“ _No,_ but it seems there's a great deal they didn't teach me. Like the value of a good game of chance...or how indulging in fantasy can keep one's mind...creative.”

Julian peered over at his friend with a small, apologetic smile, not altogether surprised to find Garak watching him with a quiet reticence that Julian couldn't quite interpret. He momentarily thought to ask, ' _A penny for your thoughts?'_ but ultimately decided against it. Not that the expression would be misunderstood by the Cardassian, only that, he wasn't quite sure he was really prepared to open that can of worms.

 _You've been thoughtless, Julian,_ he suddenly realized and it dawned on him that Garak might be waiting for some kind of an apology. Or at the very least, an explanation.

Throughout the day, Julian hadn't failed to notice that Garak's typical, breezy demeanor had occasionally flagged a little. His lighthearted teasing hadn't been wholly absent, but _had_ seemed to feel a little forced at times, undermined to some degree by an unfamiliar brusqueness which had led him to wonder if his friend might be somewhat cross with him. However, considering the way Julian had behaved over the course of the past few weeks, he couldn't say it was an unfair reaction.

Honestly, _what had he been thinking?_   He should have known better. After all, Garak was _incredibly_ observant. After the cringingly indelicate way in which Julian had handled—or rather _mishandled_ his friend's invitation to join him for dinner not so long ago, surely Garak would have been particularly incensed by the rather conspicuous way Julian had gone _out of his way_ to avoid running into him—and he definitely _should_ have anticipated that the man might take personal offense to the frankly _unbelievable_ load of bull he'd given him to get out of their regular lunches together.

The thing of it was, he just had needed the space. He was not only still undecided about what he should do with this recent, inconvenient discovery of feelings for Garak, but he also wasn't quite sure what to make of this rising tide of tension growing between them. Thus, he'd wound up resorting to some rather desperate measures to avoid facing the issue directly, and failing to spare a thought for anyone other than himself, he'd done a damned decent job of making a rather spectacular ass of himself.

Hopefully, whatever damage he'd wrought between them in his utter idiocy wouldn't prove too irreparable.

“See you at lunch tomorrow?” Julian asked, masking his apprehension behind a tone of good cheer and rather hoping his friend might latch onto the fact that he was attempting to make amends.

Garak studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally his eyes softened, cleverly extracting the carefully packaged apology as he was meant to. “Of course, but why don't we have lunch at your place—in Hong Kong. That is, if this wasn't your last mission.”

Julian paused for the briefest second, wondering if this wasn't a good idea. Sharing lunch in the safety of the crowded replimat was one thing, but dining alone together in the holosuite might lend a certain intimacy to the situation he should really best avoid for the time being. Regardless, with the uneasy state of things, Julius suspected that if he were to reject the suggestion, any hope for reconciliation would likely be off the table. So, with a keen desire to resolidify their friendship, in the spirit of compromise—he resolved to take him up on it. Julian cracked a small grin in Garak's direction as they headed toward the door. “I think it's safe to say that Julian Bashir, secret agent...will return.”

Garak humored his cheesy exit line with a soft chuckle and warm grin.

"Until tomorrow then, Doctor," he bid, before heading out. 

Julian's smile withered as he told the computer to end the program.

Dragging a weary hand down his face, he slunk against the grid-wall of the empty holosuite.

_At what point had he let this spiral into something so complicated?_

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Quickly finishing the last of his preparations, Julian heard the doorbell chime, announcing Garak's arrival.

“Computer, set the timer for half-an-hour,” Julian commanded, quickly tossing the covered pan back into the oven before whisking off his apron and jogging out of the kitchen into the front hall. Slightly out of breath, he spared a brief glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket.

“Welcome back,” Julian greeted, holding the door open for his friend. “I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at Quark's, I had just a few minor things to attend to before you arrived. I trust you had no problem getting into the reservation?”

Garak grinned. “Not at all,” he assured.

“Not that I'm sure you couldn't have managed to bypass the holosuite security permissions regardless,”Julian wryly added.

“Still, it does save one the hassle,” Garak replied airily, not at all offended.

“I'm glad you could make it,” Julian told him, his eyes flicking approvingly over his friend, whom looked just as impeccably pressed and polished as yesterday in his well-fitted tux.

“Thank you for having me,” Garak replied with a wide, ebullient grin as he presented Julian with a bottle he'd brought.

“What's this?”

“Nothing more than a small token of appreciation for my generous host.”

“I haven't seen a real bottle of champagne since I was last on Earth,” Julian exclaimed, before heading over to the bar to grab a corkscrew and two champagne flutes. “ _ _Dom Pérignon?__ _”_ he asked, impressed. _ _“__ _Where in the world did you get this_ _?”_

“ _Oh_ _,_ I have my sources,” Garak supplied mysteriously as Julian passed him his drink.

  
“Well, I hope you didn't go to too much trouble.”

“I assure you, my dear Doctor, it was no trouble at all. I merely dusted it off from my own reserves. In fact, its been sitting around for quite some time awaiting the right occasion.”

“And what occasion would that be?”

“Why, a merry reunion with a dear, long-errant friend, of course,” Garak teased with a lighthearted grin.

“Hm, indeed,” Julian replied, ducking his head a little apologetically. “In that case, I do hope you'll find this afternoon's entertainment in satisfactory reparation.”

“Of that, _my dear Doctor_ , I have no doubt,” Garak grinned. 

"Although, I will apologize in advance, on such short notice I couldn't book our reservation quite early enough, so our lunch might be just a little later than usual.”

“Oh, I'm quite positive we can find some interesting way to fill the time. In fact, ever since I suggested we rendezvous back here for lunch, you've kept your cards close to your chest and I've wondered just what may be tucked up your sleeve. Have you in mind some _sport_ to work up our appetites?”

Julian tried his best not to turn three-shades of red at his companion's rather suggestive double-entendre and shrugged. “I haven't planned anything terribly elaborate,” he admitted. “I don't know about you, but frankly, I'm just looking forward to tucking into a good meal and conversation. I'm not particularly keen on repeating anything resembling yesterday's excitement. However, if you're at all inclined, I was thinking that I could show you around after lunch.”

“While a little exercise to work off a good meal wouldn't be at all objectionable, I don't think we need to go gallivanting off too far to find an enjoyable activity that might serve a similar purpose,” Garak replied with a casual, calculated look Julian decided would be far wiser to ignore.

“Well, I'm not so sure you need fear anything too rigorous, Turning off the game feature rather limits the parameters of the program,” he explained.” Fortunately, although the field constraints give us a mere ten-block radius to explore, I figure there should still be one or two points of interest you might appreciate.”

“Of that, _I have no doubt_ ,” Garak agreed, regarding him with a warm look as Julian passed him his freshly poured drink. “I'm certain whatever excursion you take us on will be enjoyable, and if not for the sights, then at least for the company.”

Julian smiled confidently. “I'm sure you won't be disappointed.”

Garak returned his grin, raising his champagne, “That's a promise I'll drink to.  _Cheers,_ ” he toasted, clinking his glass to Julian's. “Though, fair warning, my dear, I might hold you to that promise.”

“You know, Garak, you never really said what you think of everything,” Julian commented, directing his friend's attention around them as he invited him to take a seat in one of the plush lounge chairs. Garak turned his head, glancing out the tall picture-windows at the flickering lights of the sprawling, twentieth-century metropolis before sweeping his eyes around the room. 

“I must say, Doctor, I'm extremely impressed with what you've done with the place, it's really rather elegant. Lovely, in fact,” he commended, returning his attention to Julian with a soft, admiring smile Julian wasn't entirely sure was merely for the program.

“Well, I can't take all the credit,” he replied modestly. “I only commissioned the work. Coding isn't quite my forte.”

“Still, one can tell you've put some of your own little flourishes in here and there.”

“Humor me,” Julian requested, “How can you tell?”

“Are you asking me to share my deductions, Doctor? I think we're in the wrong format for that,” the other man teased. “I thought we were in one of your spy stories after all, not that of one of your fictional, famous Terran detective's. Still, I'm flattered by the comparison.”

Julian groaned. “Oh, come on, Garak, you don't have to make everything out into some kind of mystery. I only want to know how you came to your conclusion.”

Garak stalled for a dramatic second or two to maintain the suspense, his expression screwed into a feigned look of indecision before finally letting his face split into a wide, toothy grin. “Very well, Doctor, but I think you'll be a a little disappointed when I point out the obvious. You see, in spite of the fact that you've done a marvelous job paying homage to your hero's quite _distinctive_ style; formulaic to the classic jet-setting playboy and rather contrived 'spy' stereotype, of course—there still remain some minor...rather _idiosyncratic_ inconsistencies that somewhat spoil the overall illusion.”

Julian followed Garak's pointed gaze over to the bookshelf. “Oh. You're referring to the collection of antique medical encyclopedias I take it?”

“They may perhaps be a touch more befitting of one of your spy's notorious villains instead, one would think.”

“I can't say I agree with your critique,” Julian laughed.

“Oh?”

“ _One_ would think any spy worth his salt might account for those occasional situations where he might find some need to consult how to properly reset a bone or extract a bullet. In fact, if I correctly recall, I remember spotting one or two surgical items laying around your own quarters, Garak,” Julian informed him with a smug grin. “Artifacts of bygone days, perhaps?”

“I don't know what you could be implying,” Garak harrumphed. “I can think of only one occasion you've even been in my quarters, Doctor, and I'm appalled to think that you had such _nerve_ as to snoop about while I was laid up in such a delicate state.”

Julian gave an insouciant shrug, unconcerned by the accusation. “One can't help but make a few, incidental observations from time to time, but at least you can rely on the protection of Doctor-Patient confidentiality if you're really worried about it. Besides, I'm sure you wouldn't have tried too hard to mind your own business had our situations been reversed.”

“ _I see_ ,” Garak replied, curiosity glimmering in his eyes, “And what sordid little secrets of _yours_ might I have unearthed?”

“I doubt anything _too_ incriminating,” Julian chuckled.

“Oh, I'm sure not,” Garak concurred. “In any case...if I may return to the point?”

“Please do. I believe we fell off track somewhere mid-compliment?”

“Not that your ego needs further stroking,” Garak muttered dryly, “But I will admit that I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?”

“For how poorly I've misjudged your sense of taste,” Garak explained. “Of course, based on what one has witnessed of you out of uniform, one could _not_ blame me for perhaps making a few...less than entirely flattering assumptions on the subject, but, I'm delighted to be proven occasionally wrong— _speaking of which_ , in case I failed to do so yesterday, it would be unforgivably remiss of me to once again forget to mention what a welcome sight you make in that tuxedo of yours. You cut _quite_ the dashing figure, my dear.”

There was something a little proprietary in his look that had Julian wondering for a second whether he should take offense at the backhanded compliment or blush. “I'm pleased I could meet with your approval, you _do_ have very _high_ standards.”

“ _Oh_ , I hope you don't think I'm trying to insult you, Doctor. Really, quite the contrary. In fact, if I hadn't had the personal honor of experiencing your considerable skill on the operating table _and_ charming bedside manner for myself—with such a _sophisticated_ eye for design as you have, I'd be inclined to think you'd missed your true calling.” Julian shook his head, chuckling. “Don't you think you might be exaggerating just a bit?” “Not in the least,” the other man replied emphatically. “All one has to do is look around. What with such a _romantic_ ambiance you've created, I think anyone would agree. “Well, thank you, Garak, that's very generous of you to say,” Julian smiled, trying not to read too far between the lines regarding his friend's rather suggestive choice of description.

As an afterthought, he wondered if perhaps agreeing to have Garak here in the first place _wasn't_  maybe a little revealing of certain, _latent_ intentions.

“ _Truly—”_ Garak continued, gesturing around the room, “All of this does paint quite the contrast against the sterile atmosphere of the replimat. And it's always so _noisy and crowded,_ that I can't help but impress upon you how _nice_ it is to have a place to finally share with you just a little privacy for once.”

“Well,” Julian said, feeling a little flustered as he cleared his throat, “I suppose this doesn't have to be an isolated event.”

With how congenial the tone of their exchange had been so far, Julian found himself feeling a little bewildered by the cold shift in the air as the sparkle of mirth suddenly seemed to vanish from his companion's expression—which left him wondering where exactly he'd overstepped that would incite such a frosty reception to a suggestion he'd been pretty sure Garak was angling for.

“I...didn't mean to misread the situation,” Julian backtracked feeling a little foolish.

“No, of course not,” Garak waived, “It's just that, I wouldn't _dream_ of imposing.”

“ _Ah._ ”

Julian squirmed a little in his seat, feeling a faint gnaw of dread building in the pit of his stomach. “Well, I assure you it wouldn't be any _'imposition',_ Garak,” he hurried to clarify. “I'm sorry if I haven't been more perceptive before now. I suppose I could've guessed how meeting in the replimat might not make for the most comfortable of environments for you.”

“It's grown a little less inhospitable over the years—” Garak conceded, running with the excuse.

“Still, you should've told me sooner,” Julian scolded. “We might have made other plans.”

“I did _try,_ ” Garak gently pointed out.

“Well, obviously I don't mind inviting you here to the holosuite to join me for lunch, but I think we could find some sort of compromise that might be a little more convenient in the future. What if I proposed moving our lunches to one of our quarters once in awhile?” Garak looked across at him with a vaguely patronizing smile.

“That is a very... _considerate_ offer—however, I hope you'll forgive me if I confess my reluctance believing its a genuine one.”

“You're certainly entitled to feel however you choose, Garak,” Julian replied, feeling a trifle miffed. “But I'm not in the habit of suggesting solutions I don't intend to support.”

“No, I suppose not,” Garak conceded, still not looking quite as pacified as Julian had hoped.

“This isn't about those few times in the past I've needed to cancel on you, is it?” Julian scrambled out a little desperately.

“I wouldn't call such times ancient history.”

“Well, in case it's slipped your mind, I do remember telling you I've been rather swamped in the infirmary lately since Jabara's come down under the weather,” Julian pointed, seizing on the quickly narrowing window of opportunity to salvage this situation from spiraling into the sort of argument that might likely result in leading to some rather uncomfortable confessions. However, by the unimpressed expression on friend's face, his odds were looking quite grim.

“Ah yes, Nurse Jabara's mysterious illness,” Garak mused, smirking.

“I've been feeling a bit like a chicken running around with its head cut off,” Julian added to support his case, hoping that fishing for sympathy might prove a solid enough diversion.

“Your race certainly has some _quaint_ expressions,” Garak blandly remarked. “Your self-assessment isn't entirely without merit either. You _have_ been rather preoccupied.”

Julian winced with a sinking feeling in his gut as the ex-spy steadily held his gaze, wondering if his whole little gambit hadn't exactly sailed quite as undetected as he'd hoped over the windshield of Garak's impressively sharp radar.

“ _I would think that would be a little understandable_.”

“You sound defensive, Doctor,” Garak warned.

“I'm not _defensive_ , Garak, I'm annoyed.”

“As you have every right to be,” Garak soothed. “It must be rather frustrating for you, considering your nurse's symptoms appear to be only intermittently debilitating—she looks every bit the picture of health whenever I catch her strolling through the promenade—but what I find so interesting is the _consistency_ of her condition—how frequently she's bedridden _only_ those unfortunate times her shifts happen to overlap with our lunches.”

Julian's heart dropped to his stomach.

“Tell me, Doctor, have you had any luck diagnosing the condition yet?”

“Not really,” he reported with little bluster.

“ _Really?_ And you haven't found anything amiss in her bloodwork? Nor anything in the diagnostic scans?” Garak pressed, feigning a look of deep concern. “Have you found any comparable precedent in the medical records on Bajor?"

Julian grit his teeth. If Garak was going to persist dragging this out—who was he to call himself out on his own bluff? “Nothing as of yet,” he rallied. “Damned funny thing, isn't it? But I'm sure I'll get to the bottom of it.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Garak deadpanned.

“Perhaps, I should even cut this lunch short to check in on her, don't you think?”

“Oh, I don't think there's any call to go to such extremes.”

“Well, maybe I should still bring her something to cheer her up,” Julian pretended to contemplate. “I'm sure she mentioned just the other day how lovely those Tarcanian wildflowers looked in the window of the florist's shop.”

“How considerate a gesture,” Garak praised. “I'm sure she would be thrilled.” “It's really the least I could do.”

Withering a bit under the ex-spy's oppressive scrutiny, Julian bottomed down the rest of his drink, wishing it were something just a touch stronger.

“Doctor...while I hesitate to bring up anything that might spoil the mood,” Garak carefully prefaced, “Since we're already on the subject and it's just the two of us, may I make just one, _small_ request?”

Julian's shoulders sagged.

“In the future, if you're going to have the audacity to lie to me, ' _the very least you could do'_ is think up a better alibi. I'm afraid your excuses have been just a touch flimsy, _Julian._ ”

Julian stiffened at the informal address; an intimacy his other friends took for granted, but not something Garak had ever presumed to refer to him by. Having observed the effect he'd clearly hoped to provoke, the Cardassian smiled with satisfaction. “I have no intention of arguing with you, Doctor, nor am I seeking an explanation. You don't have to justify yourself to me.”

“Then no sense beating around the bush, Garak, what precisely are you getting at?”

Garak paused, furrowing his ridged brows. “' _Beating around the bush?'_ ” he chuckled, “I do so enjoy your peculiar colloquialisms.”

Julian scowled impatiently. “ _Garak—“_

“Oh, it was all only to illustrate my surprise,” he explained. “It just seems odd to me that you would suggest such an intimate alteration to our normal arrangements after the reaction you'd had only weeks prior when I'd merely suggested dinner.”

“You think I've been avoiding you on purpose,” Julian stated flatly.

“I think there's something about expanding our routine that makes you nervous,” Garak expressed with unabashed candor. “But I wouldn't dare to speculate what reason you'd have. I will, however, point out, you don't seem to suffer any misgivings about spending your evenings with Mr. O'Brien.”

Julian's jaw dropped. “You're jealous!” he accused incredulously.

“Don't be impertinent,” Garak huffed, looking almost as genuinely panicked as Julian had ever seen him. “I never said anything of the sort.”

“ _But you are,_ ” Julian gasped, amusement bubbling up in his chest as he watched his friend grasp for the edges of his slipping control over the situation.

“You're mistaken.”

“I don't think I am,” Julian argued, fighting to clamp down on his sudden fit of giggles. “In fact, I think I've hit the nail right on its head, Garak,” he exclaimed with a smug grin.

Garak's frown was a little sour. “Do _attempt_ to contain yourself,” he sighed, watching with exasperation as Julian attempted to reign in his laughter.

“ _Alright, alrigh_ t,” he panted, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I'm sorry, but your face was _priceless_.”

“I expect you feel quite pleased with yourself right now,” Garak remarked churlishly. “But you still have yet to answer for your own transgressions.”

“Oh, so you're insisting on an explanation after all? You're not a very good sport, are you,” Julian pointed out.

“It was a simple suggestion I'd made and you proceeded to ignore me. For _three weeks._ ”

“And you think it was because I was 'nervous' about it?” Julian clarified.

"Nervous or uncomfortable. Either one...or both."

“Isn't that a bit self-centered? The whole world doesn't revolve around you, Garak.”

“In the words of your inimitable bard, _'methinks thou doth protest too much.'_ ”

“That's not exactly how the quote goes, but I thank you for modifying it to avoid referring to me as a 'lady',” Julian grinned. “I also must say, I'm impressed, Garak. I had no idea you were reading up on so much Shakespeare in your spare time.”

“By anyone's estimation, Doctor, one would say you're prevaricating.”

“Alright, Garak, fine. You'll get a straightforward explanation even if you never give me any. You said the suggestion was 'simple', but with you, nothing ever is, is it? I'm not so sure we even share the same definition of the word.”

“Ah, so you think the reason I'd given was mere pretext?” Garak asked, quirking a small, bemused grin. “That my invitation was some kind of _'veiled proposition'_?”

“I wouldn't pretend to know,” Julian admitted, and anxious to avoid venturing into any murkier waters, he hopped onto the proverbial escape pod. “The thing is, after your shop had blown up and you'd returned to the station with Odo, with all the melodrama yet to settle, I was perhaps a little reluctant to get pulled in.”

“So you chose to retreat?”

“Perhaps a bit of a tactical error,” Julian sighed giving his friend a bashful smile. “I am truly sorry Garak, if any of my actions in anyway could have been misinterpreted.”

His companion's eyes narrowed speculatively for a moment, as if internally debating whether or not to buy his explanation. “It's part of the reason I wanted to treat you to lunch today,” Julian added. “So, lets say we let bygones be bygones?”

“I suppose,” Garak eventually allowed without much conviction.

“I meant to ask, did you ever finish constructing those shelves for your store room?”

Garak sighed dismally. “Unfortunately, no. I'm still waiting on the last crate of sheet metal.”

“You have the worst luck with your deliveries,” Julian reflected frowning sympathetically. “Perhaps I can find some time next weekend to head on down to the lower level docking ring and poke around in the secondary cargo bays with you to see if we can't muster up anything laying around in storage that might help.”

“That, Doctor is a generous offer I will be certain to take you up on,” Garak replied with a grateful smile, much to Julian's relief.

“ _One minute to expiration of half-hour timer,”_ the computer announced.

“Ah, that would be for me,” Julian explained, popping out of his chair.

“Can I give you a hand with anything?”

“No, but if you want to take our glasses over to the bar and refill them, that would would be great. When you're done, just go on into the dining room and take a seat at the table and I'll be along shortly.”

Julian jogged into the kitchen to pull their hors d'oeuvres out of the cooler, adjusting the setting on the oven to make sure the roast wouldn't overcook as they ate.

“I'm quite curious to see what you've arranged for us today,” Garak remarked as Julian delivered their plates before taking a seat. “Yesterday, when you had turned down my offer to supply our meal to the holosuite, I wasn't sure whether it was because you didn't trust my culinary skills or my judgment in selecting a decent catering service. With how... _busy_ you've been, I was honestly a little worried you might forget to arrange the food altogether and we'd be stuck pretending to eat photons and holomatter.”

“Well, I just hope you won't be too disappointed,” Julian replied, vaguely amused as he watched his companion examine his food, experimentally prodding the mysterious clump of small, delicate black balls on his toasted blini with the tips of his fork prongs.

“I wouldn't feed you anything inedible, Garak. Just taste it,” Julian insisted. “I guarantee it'll be right up your ally.”

His companion raised the toast to look at it more closely. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Doctor, but this is some kind of fish roe, I take it?”

“You're not wrong, and it's delicious,” Julian confirmed while chewing, which wasn't exactly the best etiquette in the world, but Garak never seemed to mind—for as much as they conversed over their lunches, nothing would ever get eaten otherwise. “I figured with such pescatarian dietary habits you wouldn't find caviar too objectionable.”

“Oh, I assure you I've had the pleasure, I'm just not quite accustomed to its particularly _dark_ color.”

“That's normal, there's a few different kinds. Some are redder in hue and the size of ball bearings,” Julian supplied as his companion attempted his first taste.

“Ah, this is... _divine,_ ” Garak commented, relishing the salty burst of flavor. “It reminds me curiously of a particular favorite of mine native to the coastal region along the Ba'aten Peninsula. I don't suppose you've ever heard of Taspar?”

Julian pretended to look contemplative. “It rings a bell,” he eventually mused, “But I can't say I'm terribly familiar.” Truthfully, he could in fact recall the exact reference in the ninth chapter of _'The_ _Never_ _Ending Sacrifice'_ , when the third generation patriarch had been stranded in the decimated wreckage of a moorland hamlet, pillaging the creature's nests for eggs to bring home to his ailing wife—but Julian certainly knew better than to admit to as much.

“It's an avian species rather than aquatic,” Garak went on to explain, “And the eggs are much larger, but they're similarly gelatinous and brownish in color—perhaps not quite as _inky_. In the Morfan province, it's considered something of a delicacy—although the regionally preferred preparation is boiled. It's something of an acquired taste, but there's a variety cured in brine I'm rather fond of that pairs well with a good vintage of K'hava.”

Julian perched his elbows on the edge of the table and propped his chin in the crook of his folded hands regarding Garak curiously. He'd always been so reserved when it came to any subject pertaining to his prior life on Cardassia and it was a refreshing change of pace to find him suddenly talking so openly— _even if they were only talking about fish eggs._ Not that Julian had ever been terribly eager to volunteer much information about his past either—at least, never enough to warrant the kind of exchange that might reveal all those mysterious aspects of his friend he was most curious to learn about—any limited knowledge Julian had, he'd only acquired only by happenstance, and all he really knew was that Garak had some sort of ambiguous but complex personal relationship with Enabran Tain and he'd served in some capacity for the Obsidian Order as a kind of elite, Jack-of-all-trades.  

“— _Naturally,_ I don't expect you're remotely acquainted with anything I'm referring to, especially considering you'll find the station's replicators rather deficient in their selection of Cardassian cuisine, which I privately suspect is less of an oversight than it is an intentional slight, courtesy of perhaps a small bit of Bajoran tampering,” Garak sighed resentfully. “But I digress...besides, I don't like to sling uncertain arrows.”

“ _Of course not,_ ” Julian muttered dryly. “No one could ever accuse _you_ of blind prejudice.”

“Do forgive me, Doctor, I had no intention of slipping into such an _inconsequential_ tangent. What was I going to tell you again? Oh, yes. For your edification and future reference, you might find K'hava somewhat comparable to an oaky Chardonnay.”

Julian's face screwed into a look of confusion as he peered across at his companion. “I can't think of any known equivalent remotely similar to Chardonnay available in the synthehol menu, and Quark rarely has anything in the way of the genuine article save from an occasional Blood, Tulaberry or watered-down Burgundy. You're lucky if you can get your hands on Risan these days, so it begs the question: _where_ exactly would you have had an opportunity to try a _Terran varietal?_ ” he demanded rather skeptically. “And for that matter, how is it you know enough to get _Dom Perignon?_ Have you been holding out on me all this time, Garak? Are you also some kind of secret _sommelier_?”

“Merely an aficionado of all things I find to be of rare and exceptional value,” Garak replied, peering back at Julian with a strange, cryptic intensity burning brightly in his eyes. 

"You're quite the _dilettante._ ” 

"You flatter me.” Garak's gaze continued to cradle him warmly and Julian found his attention wandering down the scaled ridges of his friend's neck that escaped from view under his starched collar noting their darkened hue. He idly wondered if it wasn't a bit of a similar reaction to the sudden flush he felt staining his own cheeks and silently thanked whomever may be listening for the convenient concealment of the table between them.

Just then, rather abruptly interrupting the moment, the computer announced the completion of his secondary timer.

“Perhaps I ought to have made use of the holoprogram waitstaff,” Julian complained, discreetly adjusting certain parts of himself that may too overtly declare some particular feelings he wasn't too enthusiastic to share before standing up.

“My offer to assist is still on the table,” Garak mentioned.

“Well, take it off then. You're _my_ guest.”

“Very well, darling, but I'm not an invalid,” Garak called after him as he practically fled to the kitchen.

 _He did not just call me 'darling',_ Julian tried to convince himself, worrying his teeth over his bottom lip as he carefully plated their entrees, and then, stalling for time to collect himself as he delicately placed the garnishes.

“I was beginning to wonder if you'd abandoned me,” Garak informed him when Julian came back with their plates. “I wouldn't dream of it,” Julian muttered, his stomach turning somersaults. 

“What an artistic arrangement.”

“Er...thank you,” Julian mumbled, feeling uncharacteristically shy all of the sudden.

“And what is this sumptuous platter you plan to introduce me to this round?” Garak inquired, curiously studying his entree.

“The um...the menu consists of braised veal—which is a cut from a young, Terran, cattle-type mammal, so widely considered a delicacy that although the practice of slaughtering immature livestock is largely a thing of the past, in certain cultures, the practice persists. Fortunately for the most part, replicators have largely solved that particular moral quandary, but I don't suppose you asked for a history lesson,” Julian replied with a small, self-deprecating grin. Garak's kind smile was probably meant to reassure him, but it only managed to make him feel less at ease.

“As I was saying, braised veal served on top of a bed of saffron rissoto, garnished with tomato Osso Bucco sauce, paired on the side with gremolata and a selection of Guangdong province mixed root vegetables.” Julian recited from memory. “I chose the last item because I thought if you decided you didn't care for anything else on the plate, you might at least be able to stomach something that might remind you of Halant stew.”

“How thoughtful,” Garak remarked. “These vegetables do happen to bear quite a resemblance to Krintar root.”

Julian flinched, flushing slightly. “That's probably because they are. In fact—very little on this plate is actually the real deal. There wasn't much time to prepare obviously, so all I could manage to assemble has come mostly from various station restaurant kitchens and the replicator.”

“Still, I'm touched by the gesture and I commend you on the lovely presentation,” Garak replied graciously, cutting off a bite.

“What do you think?” Julian asked, too anxious to touch his own plate while waiting for the other man's consensus.

“Positively sublime,” Garak breathed, his eyes crinkling in the corners happily. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I'll pass that along,” Julian replied just ambiguously enough to catch his companion's attention.

Garak narrowed his eyes. “May I ask the identity of this mysterious culinary artist?”

Julian gave a small shrug and glanced down at the napkin in his lap, pretending to straighten its folds.

“Not feeling very loquacious suddenly?” Garak teased. Julian snuck up a glance, finding his companion watching him affectionately. “You should take the compliment,” Garak advised with the softest reproach.

“I... _er—_ ” Julian stammered. “I—didn't want to tell you in the off chance you might not care for something. I didn't want you to feel obligated to eat anything you didn't like to spare my feelings.”

“When have I ever been anything but entirely _honest_ with you?” Garak chuckled.

“Oh, I can think of a time or two.”

“ _Inconceivable._ ”

After they finished eating, Julian collected their plates and returned them to a bin in the kitchen where Quark, whom he'd tipped generously in advance, could easily collect them after they'd finished using the holosuite. “Care to join me for a walk?” Julian asked looking over at his companion who was reclining back in his chair with a satiated look on his face.

“But of course.”

“Then you might want to stand up,” Julian grinned. “ _Computer,_ cue external environments.”

They flickered outside the glass doors of the apartment on the sidewalk.

“I'll never get over how convenient that is,” Garak remarked.

“I didn't think it would be terribly necessary to bother with all the hallways and lifts in a complex irrelevant to the gameplay.” Julian provided by way of explanation. “Anyhow, shall we?” he asked, ushering his friend to follow him. Garak slipped his arm companionably around Julian's, linking their elbows as if they strolled around casually like this all the time and Julian sucked in a breath, tingling with a small rush of excitement at the contact and his friend's proximity.

“If you look across the street down at the corner, you can see the newly constructed Cantonese opera house. It's pretty opulent inside and a fairly precise approximation. Wasn't easy getting the original blueprints since it's been rebuilt several times over the last few centuries.”

“The park beside it's lovely,” Garak commented. “Do you mind if we meander over for a minute to look at the falls?”

After crossing the small foot bridge, Julian took a seat on the bench and watched his companion lean over the ornate, hand-carved wooden balustrade to peer down at the water. “We don't have many natural springs or rivers running through our cities on Cardassia. A product of the arid conditions, of course, so most of our inlets and fountains are artificially made. Still, nothing can rival the magnificence of Lakat...every square is tended with gardens. But my favorite are the pereks. They're always the most particularly fragrant nearest the solstice.” Garak peered back over his shoulder at Julian. “I would love to bring you to the Imperial plaza during the Uzantine festival. I think you'd fall in love with it.”

Although Julian didn't understand half of what his friend was saying, he was a bit enamored with the way he was saying it. Description fell like poetry off Garak's tongue infusing the air surrounding them with a warmth that Julian could curl up inside forever if he wasn't careful. But at the moment, he didn't feel like being terribly careful. Sometimes, he considered, being around Garak drove him half up the wall, but other times, like in this instance, he couldn't help but marvel at how easy—how _natural_ it felt.

“To coin an old term of yours, _penny 'for your thoughts?'_ ” Garak asked, taking a seat on the bench beside him. He sat neither too close nor too far, but his arm wrapped around the back panel and Julian wasn't quite sure if he'd meant to allow his fingertips to graze the back of his collar or if he was unaware of having done so. Either way, it took a small amount of will power to keep from leaning encouragingly back into his touch.

Well, in for a ' _penny',_ he thought.

“I was just remembering that I never mentioned to you that I'd finally finished _'Meditations on a Crimson Shadow'._ ”

Garak smirked. “After last time, I'm a little afraid to ask what you thought of it.”

“Well, I suppose it wasn't _just_ another piece of blatant political propaganda. It did have some redeeming qualities. For instance, I did find the love story rather interesting.”

Garak started a little. “I'm surprised you picked up on that aspect.”

“It wasn't that subtle, Garak,” Julian remarked.

“Not to a Cardassian perhaps.”

“Or an observant reader,” Julian defended. “Although I suppose it was rather buried under layers of metaphor, wasn't it? To be perfectly honest, I didn't actually notice the romance until I was almost half-way through.”

“What tipped you off?” Garak asked carefully; _a dangerous question_.

Julian, feeling a little daring, decided on a dangerous answer. “Ah...perhaps the way Gilora is always riling Jarin up, or the good-natured ribbing and banter they share over their picnics outside the barracks. They argue over absolutely everything from politics and philosophy to literature and food.”

“Wouldn't you say it sounds like they don't like each other?”

“Actually, Garak, it sort of sounds like _us._ ”

“Then wouldn't that make a firm case against your argument?”

Julian quirked a small grin, staring across at the trickling stream. He wasn't sure if Garak was being deliberately obtuse or trying to hold his hand straight to the finish line.

“Not necessarily. Look, if they didn't like each other, they wouldn't go out of their way to spend time together. They may never get along and they may disagree on almost everything, but they also seem to genuinely care about what the other thinks and has to say,” Julian countered. “There's a spark in their chemistry—in the way they challenge each other that inspires them to be better versions of themselves. I think there's a great deal of respect there.”

“That's a very clever analysis,” Garak replied, peering at Julian with an evaluating expression. “But why can't they merely be very dear friends?” 

Julian shrugged. “There may be no flowery prose or grandiloquent declarations of undying love, but it's all evident in the subtext. Or really, I suppose on Cardassia it's more like _context,_ isn't it?”

“You're not wrong,” Garak admitted, “But I wonder how you could state such things with such certainty,” he mused, staring at Julian with both renewed respect and maybe just the faintest hint of trepidation.

“Call it a hunch,” Julian grinned, keeping his secrets to himself. He glanced at Garak, although avoided meeting his searching gaze straight on, unable to help noticing the line furrowed between his friend's piercing blue eyes, shining intensely as he looked at Julian—gauging;... _waiting._

“You're a curious creature, Julian Bashir,” he eventually stated with something soft curving around the edges of his words. “For all your knowledge and insight—for however quick the cogs of your mind tick and turn, although you see what's right in front of you; can identify it with such clean and unerring accuracy, I wonder if you can understand it for _yourself._ ”

“I tend to think I can,” Julian replied softly in spite of his better senses, stilling his nervous hands and finally... _finally_ daring to look up.

“ _Sisko to Bashir, you're needed in Medical. We have a a freighter mooring in docking port seven with four injured Bajorans on board—”_

“I'll be right there,” Julian confirmed, a little breathlessly—the interruption was either a timely or untimely one depending on the perspective and he wasn't exactly sure whether it was with relief or disappointment he gave his apologies to Garak, ending the program. When they parted ways outside the holosuite, Julian also wasn't entirely sure whether it was relief or regret hooded in Garak's eyes either—but he was inclined to suspect the latter.

There was a small bounce in his step as he made his way to the infirmary that afternoon. 


	6. Chapter 6

After delivering a small, heartfelt apology for cutting their afternoon short—an appreciated gesture if not precisely a necessary one (considering Garak had already pardoned Julian of any responsibility for the unforeseen circumstances necessitating such an abrupt change of plans)—as they stood outside the holosuite, the Doctor had paused for a moment staring down at his feet. It was as if he were trying to draw the courage to meet Garak's eyes—as if permitting himself to do so would be an admission of acknowledgment giving recognition to whatever had just transpired between them in the park. Recognition lent legitimacy. Legitimacy made no exception for plausible deniability—an inconvenient hurdle to overcome in the case of a last minute change of heart. It would be an indisputable, inescapable game changer forever altering the course of their relationship going forward.  
  
In retrospect, Garak should have known better.  
  
He'd been so reticent to finally acknowledge this long-sublimated, fledgling infatuation for what it was—this surfeit of coiling, dangerous feelings surpassing mere friendship or sexual attraction.  
  
But then, his encounter with Tain had peeled off an old scab and once again he was the scared, insecure little boy searching desperately for a port in the storm, and by the time he'd returned, the Doctor, forever a reliable anchor, had received him with such a bright, warm smile that all semblance of common sense up and fled. In its wake, a tendril of hope slithered under his shields. When his dear friend had asserted he'd missed him, it demolished whatever last reservations he'd been clinging to, because although he was sure his friend had been referring to their pleasurable lunchtime rapport, he couldn't help but latch onto that faint whispering undertone of something else.  
  
There was a more than likely probability he'd been projecting, but at the time, encouraged; he'd thrown caution to the wind.  
  
But then after the Doctor had so clumsily declined his rather conspicuously _hopeful_ invitation for dinner—an offer inflected with such an unmistakably transparent motive that not even the most hopelessly naive could overlook, Garak had lain awake in bed that night agonizing over his own, astonishing stupidity—how could he have allowed himself to succumb to such misguided delusions of confidence? How could he have been so arrogant in his optimism—so _presumptuous_ to hold out hope his feelings might be reciprocated _?_ Most importantly: _how irreparable was the damage?_   But that question would answer itself in the weeks to come, when in the wake of his rather incredible blunder, he'd find himself pointedly avoided. Simmering in a rather morose blend of humiliation and disappointment, Garak had been furious with himself for risking and ruining the one source of happiness he'd found in his cold and claustrophobic exile.  
  
He'd busied himself with various projects in his shop to distract himself from the regret churning in his stomach—he'd tried reading but the words would slip away, meaningless and forgotten. As the weeks marched on, he'd hoped the man would eventually come around—that perhaps they might still yet be able to salvage something from the rather desolate looking graveyard of their friendship, but any expectation of that grew slimmer on the horizon as with every chance encounter the ridiculous idiot would startle like a frightened vole and flee in the opposite direction.    
  
_He could have at least had the decency to reject him properly._ Which is why Garak had taken it upon himself to facilitate the opportunity. As expected, the Doctor had been less than enthused when he'd broken into his holosuite program and he'd proceeded to antagonize the man until he'd finally shot him-- _not_ an altogether unsurprising result all things considered, and in the end, he'd anticipated some rather select words terminating their association once and for all but instead, Bashir had turned around and asked if he would 'see him at lunch tomorrow'.  
  
He could not have anticipated the way the afternoon would play out. He could not have anticipated _Julian._ He'd gone into this with the intention of repairing their friendship—or failing that, by exacting a little petty revenge. The grim satisfaction of making the Doctor squirm with shame would serve some minor consolation as he'd head home afterward to nurse his aching heart.  
  
Although their interaction had been polite, if not a little stilted by the 'elephant in the room' (a creature, Garak had discovered, of ample largess to aptly fit such an expression), plied with alcohol and charm, his dear friend had relaxed and they'd swiftly slipped back into their customary light and playful banter as if not a day had passed. Still, never quick to trust anything from its surface, once it had seemed apparent he'd successfully coaxed the other man into a sense of tentative security, he decided to test the waters; dropping an occasional sly innuendo here, a suggestive remark there—all the while carefully gauging Julian's reactions.    
  
Much to his surprised delight, the Doctor had blushed and dissembled in a very... _enlightening_ way—and perhaps they'd both gotten a little carried away when Julian had supplied that rather cringingly naive alternative to spare Garak future discomfort sharing lunch together at the replimat.  
  
It was one thing to imbue a hint of warmth into one's tone when suggesting dinner, it was an entirely different matter to suggest sharing _all_ of their future meals in each other's quarters. Either the man was just that well meaning and obtuse and the irony had been lost on him or he was mocking him.  
  
So, Garak had picked up the metaphorical phaser and shot the metaphorical elephant.  
  
Once the tension had finally tempered off some and the argument had subsided back into their typical verbal fencing, he'd been left feeling as if he'd somehow come out on the short end while chasing curiously after whatever Julian had meant when he'd said: “ _I am truly sorry, Garak, if any of my actions in anyway could have been misinterpreted.”_  
  
From there, their afternoon had progressed in a rather _encouraging_ fashion, suggesting a direction toward something he could barely dare to hope for. Julian was intoxicating and receptive; his smile radiant and disarming and Garak, perhaps a little emboldened by this—a little too swept up in the romance of a moment he hadn't designed but had certainly (and without reservation) manipulated in his favor, relaxed his guard. _Mind,_ he hadn't been _sloppy—_ he hadn't lain all his cards out on the table of course—but it had been a little foolish...a little _reckless_ to wax poetic about bringing Julian to the 'Uzantine' festival ( _of all places_ ). If the Doctor either recalled the term or had any wherewithal to review _'Meditations'_ , he'd discover not only what the annual event was about, but the significance of being invited to such a celebration.  
  
Garak had nearly slapped a palm to his face and groaned when not a minute later the Doctor had seen fit to inform him how he'd recently finished the novel. While he hadn't alluded to the festival in question ( _thank goodness_ ), he had leaped immediately into the fact that he'd picked up on the romantic relationship between the two protagonists. While this was in no way a central theme to the overarching plot, it was indeed a relevant aspect, and one in which, while obvious and perhaps even a _touch_ overly sentimental for its intended audience, would not be readily distinguishable to an off-worlder unfamiliar with Cardassian courtship traditions. Sharing such a work to any of his brethren would indeed have been nothing short of a declaration of intent, but Garak had no such glaring an agenda loaning it to the Doctor, whom he'd expected would have very little insight into such things.

  
That being said... _what had influenced such a correct analysis?_ Playing the 'devil's advocate', he'd challenged the Doctor's theory, but to support his case, the young man had cited very specific instances which he couldn't possibly have known. Cardassians were notoriously tight-lipped around outsiders with regard to the more private aspects of their culture. Perhaps he'd been apprised of such details by one of the older Bajorans on the station that had lived through the occupation.

Odo or Kira might have even relayed such information for all he knew. Still, in what context would such a conversation have arisen? It gave him pause to wonder and he wasn't particularly keen on what such conclusions drew.

Regardless, their literary discussion, focused on this particular subject had inevitably evolved into something far more intimate and revealing and Garak, feeling a little exposed, briefly considered making a tactical retreat in a last ditch effort to protect their newly healed friendship. Only, Julian was neither retreating nor pretending to feign obliviousness—instead, there was only a shy, earnest candor in his smile and a trace of a soft, unspoken question lingering on his lips. Then, awash with the sudden, profound urge to finally lay claim to this brilliant, exquisite creature—an irrepressible hunger he was sure had been more than evident in his expression if Julian's dawning look of comprehension was anything to go by, he'd heard himself voice the question for them both—  
  
In not so many words: _'Is this what you want?'_  
  
And in that brief, all too fleeting second their eyes had met, Garak's heart rocketed in his chest as he observed Julian's response of mirrored desire.  
  
He'd almost leaned in to close that last gap when Doctor's comm badge tucked inside his lapel had gone off.    
  
And now here they were, about to part ways, and Garak suddenly knew without any measure of uncertainty, that everything was in Julian's hands. Gripped with the sort of anxiety that clenches in the gut and seizes the breath from one's lungs, Garak stood immobilized, as a condemned man before his executioner, wondering if—no, _when_ the axe would fall. Returned to the familiar starkness of the station, outside the safe parameters of illusion, there was no magic, no enchantment, no excuse. It would be all too easy to simply let the afternoon dissolve into the fractals of holomatter and hazy, distant dreams. Or...Julian could finally meet his eyes, and there could be nothing innocuous in the implied promise of that brazen, flippant grin.  
  
And, he could then skip off without any regard for the gobsmacked, giddy man he'd left behind.  
  
“Ah, Garak, you look like you could use a glass of cold Kanar,” Quark intoned wryly, ever the intrepid grifter.    
  
Garak slipped an exorbitant amount of latinum over the counter. “Erase all footage, delete all copies and, _not one word._ ”  
  
“I hope you're not implying I would ever intrude on the privacy of my customers,” Quark smirked, pocketing the sum.  
  
“I never imply,” Garak smiled in that particular way that would best showcase the dangerous glint of his teeth.    
  
“ _Tch,_ and I'm the _Grand Nagus._ Has anyone ever told you you're paranoid?”    
  
“Only a _once or twice_.”  
  
“Uh-huh. So, must have been _some_ game to have gotten you so _wound up_. Want to talk about it?” Quark suggested with a chipper, devious grin, pushing a glass of Kanar across the counter toward Garak.  
  
“Not today I'm afraid,” Garak replied, tossing back the whole glass—something easily done, considering the cheap, watered-down quality of the beverage in question.  
  
“Your loss.”  
  
That piqued his interest. Suitably plied with a generous enough bribe often had a way of loosening the Ferengi's tongue, a not unexpected trait he'd come to appreciate about the canny proprietor. Garak's eyes flicked up to Quark's. “How so?”  
  
“ _Well,_ ” Quark lowered his voice, leaning in over the bar in confidence, “Without naming any names, I was recently serving drinks to a couple of fellows chatting, and I accidentally overheard a little of their conversation.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I don't know if you knew, but a few weeks back there were some Cardassians on the station. _Fe-males._ ”

Garak kept his expression seamlessly bland, concealing any register of surprise. But, come to think of it, hadn't he heard something in passing not so long ago? He'd dismissed it as gossip at the time. It was an almost unheard of thing for private Cardassian citizens to pay a visit to the Bajoran occupied station.

“Supposedly, from what I understand, one of them took a liking to one of these fine gentlemen. And you know how _hu-mon's_ are, always bragging about their conquests.”

  
Garak sincerely doubted the _Chief Engineer_ —a rather traditional man, would be boasting of having any extramarital liaisons. He wasn't precisely a xenophobe (no Starfleet officer would be)—but there was certainly no love lost between the man and Cardassians. _Still_ , Garak thought, releasing a long, exasperated sigh, if one had indeed taken interest and been so disgracefully obvious about it, it would certainly explain a few things.  
  
“I see. Thank you, Quark. You're always _such_ a help.”  
  
“I do what I can,” the Ferengi preened. Garak smirked. “Oh, I'm sure.” “Anything for a _friend,_ ” Quark grinned, patting the bulge of cash under his coat.

<~>

“So, what did you think?” Julian eagerly demanded the second Garak set down his lunch tray on the table.

His eyes widened at his friend, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. _“My goodness,_ Doctor. Have a little patience, you're making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Garak, I've been _dying—_ ”

“Oh, come now, my dear, surely you're exaggerating—”

“No, I mean it,” Julian exclaimed. “This is all I've been thinking about all day, I could barely focus on anything else. Just this morning I mistakenly resequenced the genome responsible for Choriocytosis in the simulator and had to begin the entire process all over again just because I've been already mentally sparring with you over your take on Smiley and Haydon's betrayal and then how _fiendishly_ clever it was to sleep with Ann and all the immeasurable ways one might draw a modern day comparison to the Circus with—”

Garak held up a hand to halt the nearly unintelligible torrent spilling out of the Doctor's mouth in rapid succession. “Doctor, if you would be so kind as to permit me to speak?”

Julian blinked. “Of course.”

“First of all, I see you haven't touched your food.”

“I haven't been that hungry. Obviously,” Julian stated as if such a thing should be plain to see.

“Besides, I was trying to be courteous and wait for you. You took forever in line.”

Garak chuckled. “It would have been a little impolite to skip ahead, don't you think?”

“I think it's a little 'impolite' to leave me hanging on tenterhooks waiting for you to finally finish the book I loaned you.”

“You are unusually enthusiastic about it. What kind of response had you been expecting exactly?”

“I was hoping you liked it. ' _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'_ is still quite relevant. I want to know what you think.”

“You usually do,” Garak mused, “And I'm eternally flattered you care so much about my opinion, my dear.”

Julian dismissed the remark impatiently. “What about the plot? Didn't you think it was cleverly constructed? Wasn't it frustrating how London simply ignored Tarr until Smiley had the good sense to send Guillam to retrieve the log books? What did you think of the way he finally discovered the safehouse where operation 'Witchcraft' had been covertly meeting under 'Control's nose?”

Sucked in by his friend's single-minded intensity, Garak jumped in to add his opinion. “I thought it was a rather meager exchange rate and I was surprised the Circus was willing to settle for it.”

“That was the insidiousness of it all,” Julian breathed. “Here, they were supposedly getting high-grade Soviet intel in exchange for low-grade British material so Polyakov could maintain his cover with the KGB, while the mole was sabotaging all their efforts making him into quite the patsy.”

“But Smiley knew better after he'd retrieved the logs, of course. To some degree, I'll admit I do sympathize with Esterhase's plight. Being an exile marked him vulnerable for deportation, something he knew would render him just as vulnerable to blackmail. Thus, he was an easy mark for Smiley and save for his persistence and legwork, he did very little actually. The mystery rather unraveled itself. The only real, redeeming feature of note was how Karla, suspecting Haydon was compromised, wisely instructed him to seduce Smiley's wife. It was a resourceful measure to misdirect his intuition regarding the double agent. Aside from that, I _was_ entertained by their codenames.”

“I thought you might be—” Julian smirked, “ _Tailor.”_

Garak responded with a patronizing smile. “ _Yes,_ Doctor, that little detail did not escape my attention.”

“So, what's the final consensus?” Julian asked. “Nothing half as intriguing as your enigma tales, I take it?”

“I wouldn't quite say that,” Garak disagreed. “In fact, I found the well-developed interpersonal relationships quite nuanced and far more fascinating and worthy of attention than the convoluted plot. For instance, the implication that Jim Prideaux had been Bill Haydon's lover made Haydon's betrayal all the more devastating and Prideaux's bone-chilling final actions all the more heart-breaking in its poignancy. I admit I'm unfamiliar with much of your Earth's finer points of history, but I couldn't help but notice the rather inexplicit way the author handled that particular detail.”

Julian nodded. “Homosexual coding was not uncommon in that era. The... _general_ view on the subject wasn't quite favorable, and it wasn't until at least another half century after the civil rights movement that public opinion began to experience a shift toward a more liberal perspective on the matter.”

“Not altogether dissimilar an experience for Cardassia, only such a socially momentous alteration was far more recent, and thus, the cinders still burn quite hot in the grate. In many sectors, the subject remains quite a spot of contention,” Garak explained. “But, as with many things of a broader, philosophical nature, it's not such a simple task to uproot old mindsets. It takes time to till the fields, and even longer to yield satisfying results.”

“I wasn't aware,” Julian remarked, careful but curious. “I know the Bajorans are quite uncomfortable with less traditional relationships, but I've never suspected such a thing of Cardassians.”

“That's because you really only know one,” Garak smiled. “ _'Family is all',_ is a motto fervidly revered. Cultivating the home, serving the home, maintaining its structure, is all of absolute essence. Thus, intrinsic to this, is the obligatory, biological imperative to vouchsafe one's lineage.”

“By what? And to what end? Bearing a brood of indoctrinated little scions to ruthlessly uphold the antiquated values of your frequently questionable system of government?”

“Well, I will say that's a _touch_ severe, but something along those lines, Doctor. I had no idea you were so _passionate_ about the subject.”

“ _'Be fruitful and multiply',_ ” Julian intoned bitterly. “I'm not unfamiliar with the concept.”

“Indeed. It's a rather repetitive theme among sentient lifeforms. I suspect without it, your Starfleet would grow quite bored trekking its lonely way across the galaxy,” Garak remarked a little wryly. “If it comforts you to know, I really never meant to disparage Cardassia's progress, The overall mentality is much more forgiving than you'd expect. It would have to be in these modern times.”

“That's surprising, considering Cardassia is such an insular culture.”

“True,” Garak conceded. “What you have to understand is that anything one owes, is owed to the state. By living a life of duty, adhering to this tenet, one serves both one's people and by extension, one's self. It's all about reciprocity.”

“But it doesn't work for everyone, does it? Your world is one still segregated by class. It's hardly an indissoluble structure. They could do to take a page out of Earth's history books. Imperialism didn't go terribly well for Rome and the caste system has failed time and again.”

“Spoken like a regular Marxist,” Garak remarked. “Lloja of Prim had shared some similarly controversial notions—notions that I remind you failed quite spectacularly on your planet at one time.”

“The Federation exists in a post-scarcity age. We have fail-safes now. Besides, we're Democratic.”

“Socialistic at best, but if maintaining that farce is how you sleep at night, who am I to dispel you of it?”

Julian's face furrowed with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Since when was the Federation an autonomous entity from Starfleet? The world you serve has more in common with a military dictatorship than the whole of the Cardassian Empire."

“That's a frankly _outrageous_ claim, we abolished slavery hundreds of years ago. Remind me, Garak, when did the Bajoran occupation end again? What's more, your nation is still divided in warring factions. It's only a matter of time before the lower classes rise up and overthrow your government.”

“I'm always charmed by your take on such matters. Should Cardassia expect this coup tomorrow? Perhaps I should forward your assessment onto the Union, I'm sure they would value your input. ”

Julian frowned. “Still, you have a class of underprivileged, practically _impoverished_ citizens whom are condemned to their lot and are still expecteded to loyally devote themselves to a state that pretty much ignores their very existence, or at best, scornfully views them as little more than an inconvenience, begrudgingly tolerated as long as they're capable of performance,” he persisted. “It's hardly fair.”

“Again with your insipid Federation sympathy,” Garak groaned, utterly exasperated. “Someday something will come along to break you of this unfortunate naivety of yours, Doctor—”

“Thank you for such a _pleasant_ prognosis.”

“—It was very endearing at first, but its really grown to be quite an unattractive trait. Nothing is fair. Nothing is just. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be.”

“Well, I'm sorry, _Garak_ , if we can't all be the born pessimists you wish us to be,” Julian retorted angrily.

“Perhaps you'd find my company somewhat more gratifying if I became some perpetually grating nihilist. I'll preach nothing but the most corrosive disdain for everything. I'll be the inverse Midas and everything I touch will wither up and die.”

Entertained but not unkind, Garak let his friend stew in his anger for a little longer before finally diffusing the situation.

“ _Ah,_ I do enjoy your little tantrums, my dear,” he replied evenly, leaning back in his seat as he sipped his tea. “And I would hate to discourage you from such an _ambitious_ transformation, but if you're only doing it for my sake, I'm going to have to dissuade you.”

Julian sighed. “Why?”

“I happen to be perfectly content with your optimism. It's refreshing, and your naivety isn't a symptom of it, Doctor. It's not even authentic to your nature. It's a front. A security measure to prevent anyone from getting too close to the truth.”

His friend's eyes widened with some trepidation. “What truth?” he asked a bit stiffly.

“The truth of how truly intelligent you are,” Garak provided. “If anyone should find out, one should think you wouldn't be able to get away with half of what you get away with.”

Julian's shoulders drooped. “You're always egging me on,” he complained unhappily.

“If I didn't, how would you ever know I like you?”

Garak grinned at the flush of red heating the poor Doctor's ears, quite satisfied he'd made the correct impression.

<~>

It was telling of Garak's less than healthy obsession with Julian that even a chance encounter in the days between their lunches were quickly becoming the highlights of his day—that he'd become so addicted to the happy flutter in his chest every time their eyes met across the promenade, and thrilled in even the smallest exchange of pleasantries in passing, that he would think to himself, _'why just leave it to chance at all?'_

So he decided to observe the Doctor's coming and goings, learn his usual routes around the station and commit them to memory so he could chart his own course accordingly. This way, he could ensure their paths would cross at least once a day, and if he was feeling particularly daring or desperate, he'd occasionally go out of his way to run into him twice. Getting this small fix was becoming a dangerous habit, but the high that lingered afterward was unparalleled.

One of the perks of being a seasoned spy meant this was an easy game for Garak and he'd fully intend to keep playing it—even if he suspected the good doctor might be onto him.

And then there were those remarkably interesting incidences which Garak had begun to suspect weren't entirely coincidental when Julian would catch him off guard by popping up practically out of thin air. After the initial surprise of running into him so unexpectedly, after a second to recover his composure, once he'd manage to steady the tremor in his hands and slow his pounding heart, he couldn't help but catch the slightest hint of a sly grin on the good Doctor's face. _But surely he'd imagined it. Hadn't he?_

Julian couldn't be doing it on purpose, he'd decided. Regardless, suspicious, he'd decided to test the theory. He'd experiment. Opt for less convenient routes than the Doctor's routine would permit without notable alteration.

But, it still happened.

This meant the doctor had joined him in the game, and Garak wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Or, if there was anything he could precisely read into it, per say, but he knew better of his clever friend than to be _too_ surprised. And then, he'd considered, hadn't he been baiting him into this all along? Garak wasn't oblivious. He knew Julian was just as fascinated by him. It was, on the surface, harmless, but all the little, micro-expressions, the locked eyes across the rooms, the shared, shy smiles...

The meal he'd so thoughtfully laid out for Garak, the _almost_ moment in the park in the holoprogram, when he'd been sure something was going to happen, and then, immediately afterward when he could have denied everything and had instead, met his gaze with confidence, reassuring him without so many words that he wouldn't. Surely the Doctor made a good show of appearing artlessly hapless and haplessly artless, but occasionally he could glimpse the shrewd mind behind the disguise; spinning, running the calculations, attempting to discern just where to make the first slice. He'd seen it that day in the park and he'd seen it again only at lunch the other day. Garak was certain that if his Doctor was given the opportunity to lay him out on his operating table, he'd dissect his brain for all the answers he'd only ever teased him with.

And the thing was, if he had even a shred of evidence to prove without doubt that his dear Julian indeed reciprocated the _extent_ of his own interest— _he'd let him._

 _Oh,_ Garak was _painfully_ aware that he could take the young man to bed if that was all he desired. It wasn't just that he was a masterful conman, he could also be _quite_ adept in the art of seduction, and he'd begun to suspect Julian would be receptive to such a proposition. He'd gathered enough clues to know as much. But the crux of his dilemma was that he didn't want that. He didn't want some mere, fleeting surreptitious affair, a few nights of heated passion and poetry which would only result in heartache for Garak when it inevitably ended.

He knew himself too well to expect he'd ever heal. Having only ever seen the sun dawning on the horizon once would poison the heart of the blind man, but the blind man, having never seen the sunrise even once, could move on with his life.

Certainly Garak conceded they might still be friends after the Doctor had decided to move on to other, _better_ prospects, but what hollow, bitter thing would fill the vacancy inside his ribcage afterward?

If his dear Doctorwas to be his to keep, he'd need to be able to present him with something other than he currently had to offer. Julian deserved nothing less. Garak couldn't provide him with freedom, he'd always be willingly chained to Cardassia, and for the time being, to the station. He couldn't provide him with riches or youth or power or reputation, but he could give him everything he had, as much as he was—as much as he was able. He could court him properly and properly cherish him.

It would probably never be enough, and it was probably even selfish to try. But when had he ever been a _good_ man? Garak knew he wasn't. Although, perhaps for Julian Bashir, he might become one.

<~>

After sweeping up and flipping off the 'open' sign, just finishing tidying up the last of his wares, Julian tapped softly on his door and peeked in. “I hope I'm not too late.”  
  
“Ah, my dear Doctor, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you around my humble shop at this hour?”  
  
Julian stepped inside closing the door with a quiet click, making sure to lock up behind him.  
  
“I didn't want to interfere with any business so I thought I'd pop over after close. I was wondering, if it isn't too much trouble, if you might assist me with a new shirt.”

“If I may inquire, is this for any particular occasion?”

“No occasion. Just something to impress an old friend,” Julian replied casually, lightly drawing a finger over a silk scarf.

Garak raised a browridge. “And what sort of _friend_ is this?” he inquired just as casually, trying not to jump to any particularly optimistic conclusions.

“One with a particularly discerning eye, whom I endeavor not to offend too egregiously with my poor fashion sense.”

“You're far too unkind to yourself,” Garak grinned. “Is there anything you have in mind?”

“Well,” Julian replied, sparing a cursory glance over the nearest stack on the table in front of him.

“I could try on one of these tops, but otherwise, that's where I was hoping you could be of some help.”

Garak grinned to himself, noting the obvious pretext for what it was. _How interesting,_ he thought, curious as to just what sort of encounter Julian had been imagining to arrange between them.

“Well you've come to the right place. There may be one or two pieces not on display yet that I think you may also appreciate. Wait here,” Garak instructed after selecting one of the aforementioned items in the proper size and laying them on his desk before heading to the back.

Collecting a few neatly folded articles from his storage room, he came back into the shop and showed his friend into a fitting room. “This top was designed with a rather different build in mind, but it has its charm,” Garak commented. “If you don't find it quite to your preference, I would be delighted to show you the other items I've brought out.”

“I'd welcome your opinion regardless,” Julian admitted.

“Which is also why I've taken the liberty of providing you with a pair of trousers so we'll both get the best impression of my work,” Garak added, glancing pointedly down at the Doctor's one-piece uniform.

“I suppose it might be a little scandalous if I'm running around in nothing but a shirt and my drawers.”

Garak felt the ridges along his neck swell with some color, “We wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong impression.”

“I don't think that will be terribly likely since we've closed up shop,” Julian retorted with a sly, teasing twinkle in his eye.

Garak chose wiser of indulging the young man's rare mood, affecting an air of unprovoked professionalism. “Do let me know how everything fits.”

“Will everything be the right size?” Julian queried, sweeping a hand over the clothing hanging on the rack. In other words: _'will you be coming in to measure me for alterations?'_

If that was the game the good Doctor was playing, he would be in for quite the disappointment. Garak chuckled a little to himself. He would never deign to humor something so indecorously unsubtle. _Still,_ he considered, humans—even this _very_ clever one whom happened to know just a little too much about Cardassian flirting, weren't the subtlest of creatures themselves, and it wouldn't do to discourage him too much.

Garak lowered his chin, glancing up at the other man coyly. “I've accounted for your measurements,” he mentioned with somewhat of a cryptic undertone that had the Doctor peering back at him suspiciously.

“Alright then,” his friend slowly replied, not quite ready to let Garak's remark fully off the hook. “I'll take a step out to model for you when I'm finished changing.

“I would expect nothing less,” Garak replied evenly. _I'll be looking forward to it,_ he thought, strolling back over to his desk to put space between himself and the fitting room so as to resist the temptation of the man undressing himself with only a curtain between them. Unfortunately, the obstruction only presented the mildest deterrent, as Garak's imagination was already providing quite the shameless spate of less than wholly _chaste_ images. He sucked in a breath, trying to focus on anything other than the bared, smooth skin; tanned and taut and positively _edible_ such a short, perfunctory distance away.

He glanced up the moment Julian pulled back the curtain, flicking an examining gaze over the Doctor's slender figure—careful to conceal any hint of admiration that may shine too brightly in his eyes. “How do you find everything?”

Julian frowned slightly. “I haven't quite decided,” he remarked, patting down a crease in his cuff. “The trousers on the other hand fit like a glove.”

“I concur,” Garak noted placidly, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

“What do you think of the top?” Julian asked sounding a little uncertain as he glanced back over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror behind him.

“I think anything would be flattering on you, my dear Doctor,” Garak carefully prefaced, “But perhaps the cut isn't _quite_ right after all. Would you care to try on a few of the articles I've selected?”

“What have you got?” Julian asked gamely, strolling over to meet him at his desk.

Garak held out one of the shirts in front of him. “This first item is possibly a bit more understated than you're accustomed to, but it may suit you nicely.” he suggested, passing it over the desktop.

The Doctor wasted no time pulling the top he was currently wearing back over his head and Garak's eyes widened a little incredulously.

“Here you are,” Julian chirped, returning the folded article back to his care, pretending to be oblivious to the reaction he'd very likely _intentionally_ provoked.

“If you've forgotten, the fitting room is only just behind you,” Garak admonished.

Julian peered back at him skeptically, amusement evident in the curl of his grin. “As if you've never seen a man's chest before. _Hardly_ very scandalous.”

Garak clucked his tongue chidingly. “Still, my dear, not the most appropriate sight outside the changing area. What conclusions might a person draw were they to see you skipping about in my shop so scantily clad?”

“Don't worry,” Julian assured him, feigning a serious expression. “I'll make sure no one dares smear your pristine reputation.”

“You mock me, but I should sincerely hope you would at least have the decorum to care about your own,” Garak sniffed.

“Oh, come off it, Garak, it's not like anyone else is here,” Julian sighed, following up his retort with a good-natured smile that hedged on sympathy. “But, I suppose if a mere glimpse of me without a shirt on _so_ offends your delicate sensibilities, I'll be sure to cover myself accordingly in the future.”

Garak looked at the young man reflectively. “It appears you're not as well-informed on the intricacies of my culture's unique ethnology as I'd come to gather. A Cardassian male's unclothed chest is every bit as private as our female's,” Garak informed him. “It would be quite... _unorthodox_ to reveal such a thing to anyone other than a trusted family physician or in any capacity outside of the most intimate of scenarios.”

This seemed to pique both the Doctor's medical and personal curiosity. “Why? Is there a distinctive difference?”

Garak hid his amusement. “Aside from a few _minor_ variations in yours and my evolutionary biology? Not particularly,” he fluidly lied. Julian narrowed his eyes at him a little skeptically at first but seemed to buy it.

“Alright, if that's the case, then you're telling me, that after all this time on the station you're not inured to such a common-place sight?”

“Perhaps it's too much to expect a _Terran_ to be mindful of such cultural sensitivities,” Garak remarked with a lightly feigned, emphatic imperiousness. “Although, I will concede that your profession, structured entirely around such a _clinical_ interest in the physical form might be a trifle less than understanding of such _archaic_ neuroses, but, all that being said, it is a matter of differing notions of decency, and you _are_ Starfleet, are you not? One would think you would hold yourself to a higher standard.”

Julian gaped at him for a second, clearly a bit stung as he curled in his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest in a sudden, unconscious display of self-consciousness.

“Hm, well, I suppose after all, you are _'only human'_ as they say,” Garak mused. “Please, don't feel you must preserve your modesty on my account.”

“You wouldn't have brought it up if it didn't bother you,” Julian pointed out, sounding both a little defensive and embarrassed in a way Garak couldn't help but find endearing.

 _Oh, he was certainly 'bothered' alright,_ but not for the reasons he'd given the Doctor, standing there in such reachable distance wearing far too little. It was a credit to Garak's exceptional self-restraint that he hadn't yet simply leaped over the desk to accost this darling, _terribly foolish_ , overly-trusting young man with all the blazing fire of his long-suppressed, lustful regard. And, perhaps his meandering, predatory thoughts had, for just a fleeting second, betrayed themselves in his expression, because the Doctor's face suddenly lit up brilliantly.

He dropped his hands back to his sides, one braced leisurely on his hip as he casually rolled back his shoulders, straightening into a relaxed stance of restored self-confidence. Garak's heart skipped a beat as the young man flashed at him a devious, _knowing_ grin tripping off several warning bells.

“Just the other day I believe you quoted at me something about _'protesting too much'_.”

“Had I?” Garak asked innocently.

“Either that or you're actually serious for once—which would be really quite the phenomena.”

Garak bristled with contained irritation. “ _Oh,_ I never say anything I don't _truly_ mean.”

“In that case, if I stripped down naked right here, I suppose you'd simply spontaneously combust from moral outrage?”

Garak narrowed his eyes. “I really _do_ hope you're joking, Doctor.”

“Have you ever heard the expression, _'wilting violet',_ Garak?”

“I have a passing familiarity with the genus—in a purely taxonomical context.”

Julian leaned an elbow on the counter and propped his chin in his hand, brazenly grinning ear-to-ear. “It means you're a prude.”

“And you, _my dear one_ , are a cheeky, impudent little _y'tsonis-m'deestra._ ”

Of course, mangled by the universal translator, what actually came out was a bit more colorful than the actual Kardasi slur he'd intended—and clearly, by the Doctor's look of bemused astonishment it had _slightly_ missed its mark.

“Did you really mean to just call me a _'wanton, shameless prostitute you'd only debauch in a trash heap'?_ ” Julian demanded, openly perplexed.

Garak grinned— _well,_ not _only_ in a trash heap. He could definitely think of a few more pleasurable and certainly _hygienic_ locations for such debauchery to take place.

“The rough translation would be _'trollop'_ ,” he emended.

“That's not much better,” Julian huffed, snagging the shirt off the desk before petulantly stomping back into the fitting room.

“I assure you it was only meant with the deepest affection,” Garak called after him, chuckling. His friend shot him a last, sour little scowl before dramatically whipping the curtain closed behind him, which was honestly a bit redundant since he was already half-undressed. Although, it was certainly a way to make a point.

Far more amused than aroused at this point, Garak sauntered casually over to the changing area and leaned against the wall by the fitting room. “Don't be too cross with me, _k'hshlim,_ ” he appealed softly, intentionally altering his dialect to avoid the universal translator correctly revealing the actual definition in Standard.

Julian poked his head out, his face furrowed with confusion. “What's that mean?”

“Nothing _too_ tremendously insulting,” Garak promised rather enigmatically before changing the subject. “Let's see how you look.”

Julian drew open the curtain. “It fits much better than the last one,” he remarked.

“It certainly does,” Garak agreed, taking it upon himself to fix the collar. When he was finished, he smoothed his hands outward along his shoulders before finally withdrawing his hands and taking a step back to admire his creation.

“It doesn't look terrible, but, honestly, Garak? It's a _little_ dull.”

“Well, no accounting for taste,” Garak intoned. He'd matched the color palette of fabrics according to the rich, warm hue of his friend's skin tone, and couldn't help but disagree with the Doctor's judgment. The pale whites and tans stood in fresh, flattering contrast, and the loose, flowing material, so elegantly draped with that deep, dropped neckline inspired an image of Julian laying in the dunes, basking under the golden, desert sun. He'd designed the shirt (as well as a few other pieces) in a rather whimsical mood a few months back with only his own, self-serving objectives in mind than those of his muse, and he hadn't any intention of ever offering them up for trial, but now that the opportunity had arisen, he couldn't help but feel quite drunk with satisfaction.

Once again, he must have given something away in his expression because Julian looked at him a bit apologetically.

“It really is very nice, Garak.” “I'd expected you'd find it a little less appealing considering it's nowhere near as bold as anything you'd be inclined to select for yourself. However, I haven't found much use for it in any of my current lines, and I rather doubt it would suit anyone else quite as splendidly, so if you think you might find use for it, keep it.”

Julian blinked, the slightest blush coloring the tops of his cheeks. “I couldn't possibly—I mean, I would absolutely wear it, if you think it really looks alright, but I can't just accept—”

“Please. Consider it a gift,” Garak insisted. “Free of charge. In any case, if you'll indulge me, I have one other item I suspect you'll find more to your liking. Wait here, let me fetch it off the counter.”

He returned only moments later, presenting the garment for his friend's approval. Julian's eyes widened in genuine admiration as he examined the metal gray tunic, shimmering with just the faintest flecks of silver.

“I think you'll approve of the texture,” Garak remarked. “The fabric is pure, Tholian silk and the clasps are handcrafted, butter ivory from the tusks of the Algorian mammoth.”

Julian looked back up at him uncertainly. “This has to be expensive.”

“Why don't you let me worry about that. Try it on.”

This time, Julian didn't bother remembering to concern himself with modesty, quickly removing his shirt right in front of him and Garak, in return, didn't bother to divert his gaze, indulging in the chance to scope out the subtle definition of his chest, admiring the flex of lean musculature as he worked the tunic over his head. To his good fortune, the poor Doctor seemed to be struggling some, giving Garak just a second or two longer to commit the sight of him to memory. His eyes trailed hungrily down the young man's slender, smooth torso, unable to resist following the vee of inguinal creases leading to his groin. Garak felt a faint stirring in his own, and drawing in a small, shaky breath, he returned his eyes to a more appropriate level—just in time, in fact, for the Doctor to finally manage to pull down the garment.

“Well?” Julian anxiously prompted, his wide, hazel-brown eyes blinking back at him with artless expectation.

“How do I look?” _Breathtaking,_ Garak thought quite breathlessly... _magnificent, ravishing, lovely, absolutely exquisite—_ _...Utterly, agonizingly perfect._

“Just fine, Doctor, as I think you'll agree,” he replied lightly, mastering the tempest inside him to lay a steady guiding hand on the young man's shoulder to turn him around to the mirror. Julian's face split into a pleased smile as he observed himself.

“I'll say. This is outstanding work, Garak, truly remarkable craftsmanship,” he exclaimed, glancing up to meet his eyes in the reflection. “You've really outdone yourself, I think.”

“We should do up your collar,” Garak suggested with a vociferous enthusiasm over compensating for the tightness in his throat. Without request or permission, he stepped around in front of the Doctor, taking it upon himself to assist with the task, expertly latching the clasps until there were only two left, which he decided after a moment to leave undone.

Garak felt a bit undone. For a long, tense moment, he found himself unable to quite remove his hands from where they'd settled at Julian's neck. He could feel the radiant heat of his skin and quickening beat of his heart under his fingers through the thin silk of his tunic. When Garak finally convinced himself to glance up, their eyes connected and he could almost taste the frisson of anticipation charging the air in the mere centimeters of space between their lips.

He realized how easy it would be to end the game, take him up on the challenge and be finished with all this pretense, deceit and endless ambiguity—how very simple it would be to close the short gap and kiss him senseless— And his dear Julian would likely even let him; might even welcome such a thing happily and willingly... _But_ —now was not the time.

It took all his will power to look away again and take that small step backwards. But then, unexpectedly, before he could plaster an unaffected, teasing grin on his face and come up with some clever, amusing joke to evade and disorient, long fingers wrapped around his wrist and Garak found himself trapped.

 _'Why are you pulling away? What are you running from?'_ Julian's bewildered, accusing eyes asked; glimmering with hurt and frustration.

Garak grimaced, desperately wanting to yank himself free of the other man's grip and put at least a meter between them, but he couldn't find in himself the strength to deny his dear Doctor anything. And what he wanted was an answer.

“What are you doing, Garak?” Julian asked quietly, his face screwed into an expression of concern; perhaps a little sadness. Fortunately, this was a very simple question to answer.

“Why, heading over to the counter to ring you up of course.” The Doctor seemed to visibly deflate and his expression became remote; unreadable even if Garak were to try.

“What do I owe you?” 

“Not a thing, I merely mean to print out a receipt for the items to make a copy for my inventory.”

Julian blinked. “I should pay you. The pants, two shirts, that's not a drop in the bucket.”

“You shouldn't,” Garak sighed, surrendering. “It was an expense already accounted for.”

“You made it all for me,” Julian stated, not even bothering to phrase such an obvious thing as a question. 

"I did.”

“I'm not going to ask why, you'll only come up with another lie and I don't think I can listen to any more.”

“Then you shouldn't ask,” Garak replied softly, this saying far more than he should have.

“Why don't you change back into your uniform and I'll package everything up for you.” Julian obeyed. When he came back out, everything was ready for him as promised.

“I'm glad you stopped by,” Garak told him as he finished up entering the transaction in the padd. “I'll see you at lunch next week?”

“I'm sure you will,” Julian drawled a bit dully. “Or on the promenade, or along the upper decks, or in the halls outside ops, or you know, any of the other dozens of places we just so happen to always bump into each other.”

“Perhaps I'll even catch you impressing that friend of yours in one of your new shirts?” Garak suggested obliquely.

Julian quirked a tired, not wholly genuine grin. “Perhaps,” he replied, just as obliquely, leaning his hand on the door to leave.

Garak, absolutely finished allowing this...this _complete_ misunderstanding to persist another second, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Doctor— _Julian,_ I sincerely do hope the friend we're both referring to is none other than myself, and I feel I owe you a confession. I mislead you earlier by saying all of this was on the house. I expect dinner with you at least _once_ this upcoming week or I'll really be quite upset with you.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “I can't figure you out, Garak.”

“ _Ah,_ but I'm really not so complicated as you make me out to be, am I?” Garak smiled airily, circling around his desk and strolling over to Julian where he stood by the exit.

“I should think about now you'd figure out one or two pertinent facts. And if you're still suffering much difficulty, I would happily refer you back to _'Meditations'_ or even a refresher course with your dear Chief Engineer.” Julian gaped at him.

“You know about that? No, of course you know. But _how?_ ”

“I have my ways.”

“Of course you do,” Julian replied, his smile returning.

His smile could light up an entire room and be enough warmth for Garak for days to come. Perhaps it he'd been clumsy to reveal so much so soon, but for the smile of his K'hshlim—his _beloved—_ it had been well worth the risk.

Stepping into his friend's space—a suggestive move if not intended to directly mean anything, Garak pushed open the door and held it open.

“Have a pleasant evening, my dear,” he bade.

“You too, _'K'hshlim',_ ” Julian replied with a smirk. Garak gasped a little, not at all equipped to hear the endearment tumble so eloquently off the young man's tongue.

“Now, Doctor, are you sure you want to be using words you don't know the meaning of?”

“ _Oh,_ I have a faint idea of what it means, and if I don't know the exact definition at this very moment, I assure you, I _will_ figure it out.”

And that's how he left Garak once again speechless and smitten. 


	7. Chapter 7

Initially, Julian hadn't known quite what to expect to come out of his lunch in Hong Kong with Garak, but throughout the course of the afternoon, it had definitely wound up heading in a direction he'd realized he wasn't in the least displeased with. Looking back, he couldn't quite wrap his head around why he'd been so resistant to the idea of a relationship with this man.

Of course, he had always been wary when venturing into _past_ relationships. There was always that possible looming threat hanging over his head that a partner might be _too_ clever and eventually dig up those truths about him best left buried. Thus, Garak's innate intuition in combination with his skill for observation—an enduring trait honed by years of training, meant the ex-spy could pose some degree of threat. (After all, _old habits die hard)._ That being said however, when taking into account Garak's own dubious past; a thing he guarded behind just as much obfuscation, for once, (at least in that regard), Julian could find some equal footing.

All things taken into consideration: was there anyone he could ever hope for that would make a better match? Being that they were both fairly weighed down with rather volatile baggage, quite evenly matched wit-for-wit; (a refreshing change unto itself), shared a mutual passion for debating politics, philosophy and literature—(an invigorating past time he'd rarely found quite as satisfying with anyone else)—it all frankly seemed quite obvious.

The thing was, Garak's gregarious, teasing nature had never been limited to himself—which alone, could make itself a convenient alibi for the flagrant way he would frequently and quite conspicuously flirt with him. Yet, _only_ with Julian had his behavior never seemed _wholly_ innocuous. There had always been something beyond the surface; a sort of faintly detectable charge of _sexual frisson_ in his friend's innuendos and demeanor that had seemed a little more authentic regardless, and even perhaps, in spite of himself. Still, it had been always too ephemeral a thing for Julian to ascertain with any inarguable certainty. Thus, Garak had remained an unknown quantity. The man had really done such a bang up job cultivating himself as neither reliable nor predictable, that nearly every aspect of the multifaceted and multi-layered persona he'd crafted could be called into question.

It often left Julian wondering what he was playing at—if he was merely toying with him as a way to pass the time. Garak was far too brilliant and dynamic to ever be entirely content in his role as some mere, simple _tailor_. He could always be relied upon to poke his nose into matters it didn't belong in; a fact, if asked, either Odo or Sisko would readily substantiate. So that posed the question: was Garak bored? Was Julian nothing more than a pawn in a long-game against Starfleet or Tain or Dukat or any other one of his many, likely countless enemies? The web he weaved was a vast and tangled one. Garak could be ruthless, cunning and even a bit Machiavellian, yet, there was nothing indicative about the way his friend treated him that seemed _too_ terribly nefarious. At least, not lately. Not anymore. If he'd meant to use Julian for some other, more illicit purpose, he could easily have done so without going to so much needless trouble. On the surface at least, they'd already established a pretty solid friendship—he hardly needed to nurture any deeper interest to bulwark that fallback.

Which again, led Julian to further speculation. There was an undeniable spark of chemistry here; a sort of unharnessed fire between them that they'd both been only half-consciously stoking for quite awhile.

In the weeks that had followed that unexpected, intimate moment in the park, they'd both been dancing around each other; teetering on the edge of forging this into something more. Julian wasn't quite courageous enough to cross that bridge himself, but then, it seemed neither was Garak.

Julian honestly didn't know what to make of it. Was the man somehow waiting for some clearer sign from him? Cardassian's were suckers for subtlety, and Julian didn't want to come off as _too heavy-handed,_ but he was fairly sure he'd failed in that regard anyway. Miles had always taken every opportunity to take the piss, poking fun at his efforts when he'd catch him trying to seduce some new prospect or another.

He did give himself _some_ credit however. Considering Cardassian courtship relied on rather schoolyard tactics— _to date_ , he'd just about checked off every box. For instance: they had returned to sharing their regular lunches ( _even if they were still only meeting at the replimat_ ), they had even occasionally joined each other for the occasional supper together at one or two of the station's restaurants. He'd also engaged Garak rather conspicuously in several quite rigorous debates. He'd stepped up his game when it came to purposefully provoking the other man— _in fact_ , Julian had found their repartee noticeably ticking up a notch from both their ends. A bit of verbal fencing over pudding and Larish pie had long been one of the more reliable features of their relationship (and something he'd always looked forward to with the other man), but the impressive magnitude of sheer _acrobatics_ attained while absorbed in this sport, had of late, been simply unprecedented.

Even more significantly, he'd noticed that throughout the days between their dates, Garak had seemed to almost be _stalking_ him. It had taken a few, surprise run-ins to figure out this hadn't been merely coincidental. Julian, eager to prove that for _one,_ he'd figured out what the other man was up to, and _two,_ that he was game, didn't hesitate to spin it around on him. When Garak had noticed, he'd turned quite slippery, making the pursuit all the more exhilarating.

 _But_ , while playing cat-and-mouse was all _well and good_ , he was getting rather sick of nothing but fun-and-games and _good lord, did he want this man in his bed._ Still, his quarry was proving quite infuriatingly elusive and Julian wasn't altogether sure whether Garak was simply being purposefully obstinately coy with some kind of object in mind to drive Julian quite out of his, or whether he was actually just that _skittish._

Thus, with respect to traditional Cardassian seduction, he figured he was either going about all of this wrong, or he was proving himself an exceptionally proficient study in the art form. Regardless, although he conceded that the suspense of a good chase usually had a reliable way of enhancing the prize, there was only so much patience one could expect before such a gambit would begin to wound the ego.

So after a bit of restrategizing, Julian resolved to attack from a new angle. He'd wanted Garak to read _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'_ for quite some time, but his only original agenda had been to inspire an in-depth analysis over the novel's more direct subject matter in the hopes it might crack open the door into Garak-the- _ex-spy himself._ However, his motive had shifted some, more curious now about the Cardassian's take on the implied relationship between two of the central characters. He'd wagered it wasn't something his clever friend would miss and Garak hadn't disappointed him. He hadn't skirted around the matter at all in fact, instead, he'd gone right after the meat without any pointed hints or hand-holding.

Initially, Julian had been banking on the hope his friend would see through his rather obvious ploy— considering it didn't exactly diverge much from his own little scheme when he'd loaned Julian his copy of _'Meditations'._ He'd thought Garak might even be bold enough to call him out on it and this would steer them into more relevant topics—only instead, it had opened the conversation into an entirely different direction altogether.

Thus enlightened to Cardassia's general views regarding the subject had led Julian to an immediate review of the facts:

 _As a whole_ , Cardassians were a hive-mind oriented culture, and Garak had never been an exception to this rule; just as susceptible as Dukat in a way which had always stuck in Julian's craw. No matter how he could spin their arguments, no matter how fair or just his criticisms, the man had never folded to higher logic.

And since Garak had never been anything if not the staunchest of Cardassia's defenders, who was he to champion an alternative perspective?

Alien influence had often been met with a cool enough reception to infer that any deviation from the State sanctioned norm would be widely disapproved of, and the importance of honoring the traditional home was ingrained firmly into the societal conscience. Thus, in deference to this, less than traditional arrangements would not be perceived favorably.

Bearing all this in mind, upon doing the math, this suggested that Garak would likely be similarly influenced. He had of course defended himself, giving Julian a rather soft and slipshod impression that he didn't agree with the broadly accepted attitude, but he hadn't manifestly rejected it outright. Garak could always be counted on to be a _rare bird_ but he wasn't an outlier. Not when it came to his unswerving devotion. Not when it came to Cardassia. If he couldn't object on principle to his Government's disgraceful occupation of Bajor or even its abuse of their own lower class, then why should Julian expect he might object to something as trivial as a little personal discrimination?

 _Ah, the hypocrisy of it all._ Because, in spite of this, the man continued to flirt remorselessly with everything that moved. (Although, not quite to the degree of a certain _Ferengi_ of their mutual acquaintance). Of course, aside from the present, when had he ever been genuine about it? From its surface, Julian had always imagined this particular quirk of Garak's implied rather adventurous inclinations, and he'd honestly never second-guessed the assumption. However, now he was beginning to suspect otherwise. Certainly, a good spy would have to maintain a more worldly disposition to allow for the many variations one would expect to encounter in the field, and perhaps this behavior was some kind of leftover affectation from those good old days; something he found amusing enough to keep around and flaunt for kicks.

Julian didn't doubt this was part and parcel to the package, but he couldn't help but think it felt a little like over-compensation. If he was indeed as swayed by such a close-minded mentality as Julian suspected, it would provide a convincing cover for those less than convenient _truer_ aspects of his nature. _Lord only knew_ Julian was guilty of doing the same damned thing every damned day: a bit of braggadocio threaded through an artless mask had served well enough all these years to effectively guard his own secrets and he was already more than aware the other man played to the same tune. Fiddlers always recognize their own, and Garak had a matching fiddle— _why shouldn't he use it?_

Perhaps Garak didn't exclusively _'bat for the same team'_ exactly. Perhaps Julian was merely an exception, but a little internalized homophobia would certainly explain a lot. It would certainly account for his friend's rather frustrating reluctance to allow for, what at this point, was quite a natural progression for their relationship.

Determined to prove whether or not this was the case, after his shift was over, when he'd known Garak would be just about closing up shop for the day, Julian had made his way over to test his theory. The tailor had been as effusive as ever—his typical, friendly, teasing self. But, he'd still seemed a little more guarded than usual, his provocative leers and loaded smiles a bit more subdued than Julian had expected. Perhaps a little _reserved_ even. Certainly no less verbally flirtatious at least, and that was promising. What was even more promising was how utterly _put out_ he seemed to be when Julian had taken off his shirt in front of him. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or tickled when his friend had called him a _'trollop'_. The Kardasi variant of the slur held just a bit more of a self-incriminatory note than an accusatory one than the Standard definition, and it was a fact Julian couldn't help but appreciate. And then, Garak had called him _'K'hshlim',_ and for whatever reason, the Universal Translator hadn't picked up on the term. He'd either used an unusual regional dialect or purposefully altered the pronunciation. Regardless, two things were quite telling about this: first, the fact that Garak would choose such an evasive tactic meant this was a word Garak had consciously chosen to use, but not one he necessarily wanted Julian to _know._ Secondly, while it wasn't couched in much context Julian could use to decipher its meaning, it had the same flavor and placement of an endearment. But aside from all of this, what had most captivated his attention was how the word had been spoken. The inflection Garak had used was so _warmly affectionate,_ it had felt almost proprietary—in the same way fitting Julian in clothes he'd secretly made for him was.

And that was another matter. He hadn't come for gifts, but he'd walked out with an armful anyway. It hadn't just been the fact that the cost of the materials alone for the items were far more than Garak could simply afford to give away on his regular income, that wasn't what moved Julian so deeply about the gesture. It was the fact that he'd made them with Julian in mind— _and clearly_ _for himself, no less._

Julian hadn't been quite prepared for what that conveyed. Obviously, by the way Garak looked nothing short of ravenous when he'd purposefully wriggled about pretending to struggle to get that tunic over his head, he knew the man wanted him, but he was beginning to realize it might be for more than just a tumble in the sack.

When Garak had finished fastening up the neck, he'd paused, and there it had been: all the unsatisfied hunger and bottled up longing and Julian had thought: _finally._ But then he stepped back.

Julian had burned with disappointment.

_You make these exquisite garments for me with such profound feeling poured into every stitch, you speak this intimate and reverential name for me in your own fervidly-guarded native tongue allowing it to roll from your lips in such silken, syllabic candor—you do all this for me—you allow yourself this much, but you won't allow yourself to kiss me?_

He'd just about given up hope. Garak may want him, but if wasn't willing to meet him at least half way, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Then, just as he'd been ready to leave—to wave his flag and forfeit, Garak had done a one-eighty.

“ _...I'm really not so complicated as you make me out to be, am I?”_

He'd circled around his desk and stalked forward toward him in an almost predatory way, his smile arresting and his eyes fixed on Julian with melting intensity.

“ _I should think about now you'd figure out one or two pertinent facts. And, if you're still suffering much difficulty, I would happily refer you back to 'Meditations' or even a refresher course with your dear Chief Engineer.”_

Well. _Alright._ It was news to him that Garak knew about _that_ , but that's not what mattered. What mattered was the fact that he'd cited both sources Julian knew were at his disposal to understand Cardassian courtship. Which, _clearly_ this was. He had been on the right track after all. So _this_  was how Garak had chosen to approach everything.

For a moment, Julian's knees had felt weak and the word Garak had referred to him by recalled itself: _'K'hshlim'—_

—And suddenly his mind became a trilithium fueled mainspring, spinning at warp, and every soft look and touch and word Garak had ever given him transposed itself over every definition in every form, age, language and world: _ya habib alby, ya rouhi—botlh 'u'wij soh—cheli—ʃuod—ki—yedid—raal—imzadi—t'hy'la—_

Garak had held open the door for him.

_“_ _Have a pleasant evening, my dear.”_

“ _Goodnight, 'K'hshlim',_ ” Julian had replied, grinning.

Garak's gobsmacked, half-panicked, half-besotted expression confirmed his suspicions.

“ _Now, Doctor,”_ Garak had warned, _“Are you sure you want to be using words you don't know the meaning of?”_

Terribly pleased with himself but not willing to give Garak the satisfaction, he'd hinted that he had a 'faint idea' and warned that if he wasn't entirely sure of its meaning, he soon would be.

Julian had felt so optimistic after that evening, he'd really thought things would begin to positively progress in a much more expedient fashion. They'd dined together, talked and laughed and teased...the glances had lingered longer, Garak's knees would occasionally bump against his under the table, he'd rest his hand on Julian's forearm for a moment or two... but that had been the extent of it.

Julian had told himself not too push too hard. They would do things Garak's way—as that seemed the only way the man would allow for.

They attended almost every recreational activity together, cleared their schedules for each other, closed the bar at least several times. How often had Garak walked him back to his quarters at the end of the evening? How often had Julian almost forgotten himself and asked him in? How many times had he been tempted to invite him to stay? He was drunk on Garak's smile and his focused attention. He soaked in every admiring glance, every affectionate remark.

 _Any second now_ , and he was sure this maddening man would finally, _finally_ take him to bed. Or at the very least, surrender to him some kind of verbalized confession. Julian was a romantic at heart after all, and honestly, he couldn't afford to be too picky at the moment.

  
At this rate, however, he was beginning to suspect he'd die of old age before the man would see fit to get around to it. Which was why, as they sat together in the stands watching the springball tournament, Julian found himself scowling as Garak's attention kept drifting over to the new, resident half-Cardassian sitting in the stands only a few rows ahead. She was terribly pretty, as far as he could tell, incredibly sweet, far, _far_ too young and Julian currently desperately  _despised_ her.

In the past week, ever since the Major had brought her on board, Julian had found Garak's eyes drift over to her. Whether they were in the replimat or the promenade, his attention would stray to seek her out. He'd been so distracted by the young woman his interest in Julian had seemed to plateau. He hadn't been quite as free to join him for a drink or a round of kotra. Their meal-time discussions hadn't quite thrived as they had: Garak, too easily giving in to Julian's point or dropping his own argument midway in a fit of pique or boredom. The man was always mercurial, but this was irregular even for him. In fact, it was simply down-right rude.

“Stop watching her.”

Garak feigned innocence.

“I thought the whole point was to watch.”

“The point is to watch the game, not the _spectators,_ ” Julian reproached sourly. “Especially not _that_ spectator.”

Garak ignored his obvious tone of jealousy. “What does she expect? She's the only Cardassian woman on this station. She must know she's going to attract some attention.”

“Some, yes. _Yours,_ no.”

Julian's jaw dropped as Kira went down, tripped by her opponent. “That's a foul! Come on!” he shouted down at the court. When he settled himself back in his seat, he noticed Garak watching him shrewdly with a small, amused grin, but it wasn't unkind as much as it was speculative.

“Maybe I should say hello after the game,” he mentioned, darting a discreet glance back at the girl.

Julian stared at his companion with a disapproving frown. “She's _Gul Dukat's daughter,_ Garak. I can't think of anyone in the galaxy who hates you more than he does. And,” he added in warning, “Ziyal is a friend of Kira. I wouldn't play around with her if I were you.”

Garak blinked back at him, bristling with offense. “I _simply_ thought it would be polite to say hello. But _clearly,_ you think I'm incapable of conducting any kind of pleasant discourse without some nefarious ulterior motive...”

Julian rolled his eyes. “That's not what I meant,” _and you know it._ “I just think you should leave well enough alone. Why stir up—” The buzzer sounded abruptly cutting him off mid-sentence and Garak leaped to his feet along with the rest of the crowd, applauding enthusiastically.

“Yes! What a play! Bravo, Major!” 

So as not to look like he hadn't been paying attention, Julian quickly jumped up from his seat as well. Glancing out at the stadium he could see Kira's opponent lying flat on his back and the ball bouncing down the court away from him. Kira had won the game and he'd _missed it._

“What happened?”

“A brilliant move on the part of the Major. You should've been paying attention,” Garak chided a bit smugly before his eyes drifted back down to Ziyal. She turned her head meeting his companion's eyes for just a brief moment with a small, curious smile that Garak returned. Julian tore his gaze away from them both with a disgusted sigh, abandoning Garak as he climbed down from the bleachers.

He wasn't sure what the nature of Garak's attraction to the young woman was precisely, but he knew well enough what hers was. _It mimicked his own well enough._

Julian made his way to Quark's, seriously needing a drink. He'd intended to drown his woes alone, but Leeta had just gotten off the clock and when she'd offered to join him, he couldn't refuse. They had come to know each other a little better over the last couple months and he'd found her quite good company. She wasn't as sharp as Dax nor as feisty as Kira and she couldn't exactly 'chew the fat' like Miles could, but she kept up well enough, she was surprisingly insightful and kind and he really quite liked her lighthearted joie de vivre attitude. It was just what he needed to cheer him up.

It was also a perk that she seemed to like him. He hadn't ever done anything to encourage her, but at the moment, the batted eyelashes and coy little grins served a much needed boost to his aching pride.

And that's when the idea hit him. _How clever—how convenient. How terribly selfish and wrong. He couldn't possibly..._

But then he saw Garak and Ziyal strolling down to the replimat together laughing and conversing and Julian realized that _yes..._

_He could._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in order: Sudanese, Klingon, Bajoran, Andorian, Ancient Sumerian, Hebrew, Orion, Betazoid, Vulcan. 
> 
> They're all some variant of K'hshlim, 'beloved'. 
> 
> Much of this was found in obscure fanon databases, some in Memory Alpha and Beta and lastly, the 'Kardasi' term I invented because I didn't want to steal from other authors.


	8. Chapter 8

When the Major and Dukat had returned to the station with the Gul's half-Bajoran daughter, Garak hadn't known quite _what_ to think. From a logistical stand point, sequestering the child to the purview of Starfleet/Bajoran supervision made a world of sense. For one, it ensured her safety from any of the Gul's political enemies. She was an exploitable, dangerous _Achille's heal_ that would be sure to open the ambitious official up to controversy he couldn't afford. Even the mere prospect of bringing this _ghentregămst—_ this illegitimate _love child_ of his late mistress home to Cardassia would be a fool's errand, tantamount to political suicide.   
  
A bastard himself, Garak was acutely aware of the ramifications. Had it not been for Mila's quick vigilance and protest, he imagined if left up to his own devices, Tain would likely have tossed his bassinet over the gate to the scotrill—a creature rather more renowned for its savage teeth than its mercy.    
  
_Thus,_ he wasn't _entirely_ without sympathy for Ziyal.   
  
Surprisingly, she seemed to encounter little of that skin-deep prejudice he'd long weathered. In fact, the resident Bajoran's weren't half as troubled by her presence as he'd expected—although, perhaps this was only because she had only half his ancestral blood, and therefore only warranted half as much loathing. She also had made friends with astonishing ease. She could thank the blamelessness of youth for that or even the Major's influence as her guardian-by-proxy. Kira Nerys was after all, not only her fiercest defender but Bajoran herself, and in a sense, with respect afforded to her official rank and authority aboard the station, (as well as her lauded reputation garnered from the role she'd played during the insurrection, of course), something of a role-model for her people.    
  
But then again, perhaps the real attraction could be attached to that bond forged of sympathetic misery; that connection only subliminally understood among those who've endured similar hardship.   
  
Regardless, Garak wasn't keen to make a formal introduction, and not just due to her warm reception among the local Bajoran population. Ziyal's allegiance may not have been to Cardassia, but with a child's youthful guilelessness, yearning for acceptance, she was undoubtedly loyal to her father, and there was certainly no love lost between himself and Dukat. Not that such a thing seemed terribly reasonable to Garak—(he'd only ever tried to assassinate him just that once, and in any case, it was only by order, _nothing_ _personal._ ) Of course, he'd never had much respect for the swaggering, simpering _măgath,_ but that didn't mean he necessarily wished him _dead._  
  
_However,_ it went without saying that he would be among the _last_ to shed a tear, and he had no doubt this was a sentiment the Gul returned.    
  
In acknowledgment of this, with some good measure of determination, Garak committed to maintaining a wide berth between himself and Ziyal. He wouldn't hesitate to slit the child's throat in self-defense if it came down to it, but in the event of such an unfortunate scenario, he was well aware that if Dukat didn't come for Garak himself, the Major would be the first to volunteer for the job. She may not be terribly fond of Dukat either, but Garak had no doubt she would willingly serve his head up on silver platter for the Gul—that is, if she were up to the task. He knew she was a force to be reckoned with, but Garak hadn't resigned himself to complacency over these past few years in exile.   
  
His morning regimen of martial art and meditation in the privacy of his quarters had kept him formidable. The cold environment had given him an excuse to bulk his layers, providing a clever means to look like he'd gained a pound or two. From all outward appearances (being a thing one should never put stock in), just as the Major was a feminine slip of a thing, Garak, looking a little soft around the edges, knew quite well this aided his own advantage every bit as effectively. _Once a soldier, always a soldier._  
  
Garak wondered what exile from exile would look like. The Orion syndicate wouldn't turn down the opportunity to make good use of his talents if they were to happen to fall in their lap, but such a prospect held little appeal. Perhaps he could set up shop somewhere in a distant Quadrant. There was a very promising possibility he could even gain admission into the Carraya system. It would require approval, which meant _legwork_ , but he had little doubt this was no task beyond his capacity to achieve. He'd gained some footing within the interior consulate in those years embedded in the Cardassian embassy on Romulus, and he knew of a chip or two he could still trade in among some of the Praetor's shadier connections to persuade his endorsement.   
  
The more he contemplated the idea, the more he liked it. There were a few planets in the inner ring he knew of that could boast quite an optimal climate for hobbies of a more horticultural variety. Perhaps he could relax into retirement as a gardener again. There was nothing quite like breathing in the fresh, aromatic fragrance of Edosian orchids blooming in springtime—so beguilingly sinless and yet, so _insidiously sinister;_ a quite delightfully _poignant_ allegory (self-referencing of course) _,_ and one which he'd always been rather absurdly pleased by—if, in an admittedly _somewhat_ narcissistic way.   
  
Still, such daydreams and back-up plans were unlikely to come to any fruition. Garak could see no profit in _'jumping the gun'_.  After all, he had neither any inclination to harm either woman, nor (again in the case of both subjects) did he particularly relish taking such _young_ lives. It was always regrettable when circumstances forced his hand in that regard and if there was no real necessity, it seemed like such a _waste._  
  
Unlike some of his past associates with far fewer scruples, he had never taken much pleasure in the kill itself. It was the element of orchestrating the _coup de grâce_ he'd always found quite rewarding. This was his domain; his _specialty._   
  
Of course, when a situation required a more _hands-on_ approach, he couldn't deny finding some enjoyment in the hunt, even some in the resulting struggle for dominance; when one's life hung in the balance and pended on the outcome, it was always rather empowering to come up the victor.   
  
_To the victor go the spoils_ was an interesting little human adage that didn't quite fit in this regard, however.    
  
Because, as the light flickered and vanished from his victim's eyes, that was where the fun ceased. For Garak, this less savory part of the job was an impersonal one, a literal means to a literal end.   
  
_Ah,_ but back in those early days, those times when he'd lived and breathed to _train...there was nothing quite so gratifying_ as sparring with a truly worthy opponent. Grappling a man to the ground—forcing him to submit—being forced to submit by a stronger adversary...there was such an arousing, _visceral_ physicality to it: _his heart-pounding, his strength fueled and senses heightened by the heady release of adrenaline coursing through his veins like liquid silver, the molten hot press of two bodies engaged in combat—ah,_ those days of raging hormones and soaring tensions when such sport would almost always result in steamier activities afterward. But that had always been quite naturally about satisfying those inevitable, baser urges. He'd remorselessly vent his frustrated lust on their bodies with punishing force and they'd do exactly the same.   
  
To engage in such an act with another man was nothing unheard of, _at least not in the barracks,_ but physical release was nothing. It wasn't love. It wasn't a foundation for a family. Venturing into such a commitment with a member of the same sex, while no longer illegal, wasn't just discouraged, it was outright _unseemly._ Something that just _wasn't done._  
  
Some did, but living flagrantly as an outcast in a culture that prized itself on its uniformity was no better than a rejection of Cardassia herself! Who wanted to be a demagogue? Loving Cardassia, loving her people was the worthiest, highest cause. Everything else was ancillary. Duty sometimes required sacrifice.   
  
Garak had a clear grasp on the nature of his own inclinations; fluid enough to find satiation in softer curves and in the dewy sweetness of a woman's folds, but it was nothing to the way he yearned to seek purchase of firm flesh and devour the hard lines of a construction far more similar to his own design.   
  
_To make a man yield, to take him apart, inch by glorious inch, to render him limbless, trembling with pleasure for you, your name spilling from his kiss-bitten lips in a gasp—then, to yield in turn, to let yourself surrender to your lover's strength and urgency to claim you—_ _—_ Such _wicked, carnal thoughts!_   
  
(It had really _quite_ clearly been awhile.)   
  
But to return to the point, it was a very good thing sex was only sex, otherwise his sacrifice for the State would be a great one indeed!   
  
Over the years, Garak had taken a few lovers; some female, fewer male, some by necessity and fewer by choice. He'd honed his technique, learned how to attune himself to his lover's needs and his lover's pleasure. It was a useful skill for the field and it served him well. And if ever he'd experienced a moment's pause in the midst of passion to wonder after sentiment, he'd just as quickly banish the thought.   
  
... _Ah, digression!_   
  
As to the subject of rather rash, preemptive thoughts of murder, he'd decided to shelf the idea. He would wait. He would watch. He would make a decision when he had a few more facts. After all, it wouldn't do to give Sisko such a sound reason to banish him. His internment here left little to be desired but he could think of one very good reason to stay.   
  
_Unfortunately, it was also one very good reason not to._  
  
Julian Bashir was his own, personal _Achille's heel._  
  
He'd burst into Garak's sky like a comet shooting across the horizon: a vision too rare to turn from, captive to chase its burning trail as if it were only some string of a kite he could catch and reel back to himself.    
  
_Why was it Bashir had to crashland his ship here, of all places?_ Why had he come to this far off frontier, to _this_ distant station _?_ Why not one of Starfleet's more prominent flagships where he'd be certain to gain the acclaim his brilliance deserved—where he could furnish a career of distinction? The young Doctor's considerable talents could have secured him his pick of positions, he could have landed a post anywhere his heart desired, anywhere in the Galaxy.    
  
Why did it have to be _his_ part _—in Garak's own, personal hell?_   
  
What miserable luck this enchanting, _enticing_ young man had so unwisely chosen to unpack his bags here on this cold and hostile chunk of metal—this glorified shell, suspended in space, _when really_ , he should have been off chasing adventure and glory on the shores of far off stars.    
  
What a curious thing it was, and it had led Garak to ponder the lad as if he were some embodiment of Shoggoth's Enigma tales.   
  
He should have found his callowness trite. He should've sneered down his nose in scorn at this neophyte—this blithe and brash _garheç_. He should _not_ have found this green and sincere, genuinely _good_ man to be just the breath of fresh air he'd needed. There was nothing yet sullying his starry-eyed optimism and here was Garak, steeped in sin and cloaked in lies, like a careless child in a china shop, yearning to touch what he had no right to.   
  
_Oh,_ he was full of cliches and metaphors and sappy, saccharine poetry—and he was quite self aware enough, _thank you,_ to be thoroughly disgusted with himself. But, like a moth drawn to a flame, this _legna k'verkoun_ had him utterly spellbound.   
  
Although Garak had wondered to himself: was he _really_ like the sun? At least in the sun, one could openly bask, so perhaps he was more like the _pret krinek—_ the beautiful spark of light of some distant, brilliant star piercing through the curtain of the night, lovely, but never meant to be accessible.   
  
Only, this _pret krinek_ had become something more of an oasis for Garak; glistening deliverance for the thirsting man stranded in the desert.    
  
_Oh,_ it had been _such_ a mistake to ever approach him.   
  
He'd long tried to convince himself he was immune to such temptation. His training cradle-up should have been enough to neutralize him of this petty need to form attachments. Not that it had. Mila had been his salvation throughout his desolate youth, and Tain: this personified paradigm of everything he ought aspire to, remote on his pedestal—a man who would sooner go to his grave than allow Garak to utter that one, simple word that would have condemned him and yet meant everything to his son, had still taken his blade and cruelly carved himself a place beneath his breastplate.   
  
_Sentiment was a weakness and Garak, its fool._ So many decades he'd spent untouched by it, unmoved by any lover's beauty or kindness.   
  
All it had taken was this ridiculous young man to undo him. Julian's compassion was Garak's misfortune; his friendship, his shame...his smile, _his ruin._  
  
_'Yan-pret K'hshlimouv-çăk, edek entrancep pă_ _çriyta, yan-ut insadran pretouv encep':_  
  
_For the love of my beloved, I conquer or die, for to cloak my heart is defeat._  
  
He hadn't remembered this small, almost negligible passage from _'Meditations'_ , an odd thing considering how figuratively dog-eared it was. (Well, as much as a dataclip could be anyway.) But then, on a whim one night while laying in bed, not long after Julian had returned the novel, being the glutton for punishment he was, he'd decided to peruse a few chapters.   
  
Upon encountering this single line, he'd stopped dead in his tracks for several seconds, unable to breathe; the very air squeezed from his lungs. Garak was no scholar in matters of the heart, but in that instant, he'd suddenly understood _exactly_ what Preloc had meant—could feel with stinging acuity every word, the verse pinging with resonance—as if it had already been seared into his soul.  
  
_'K'hshlim',_ he'd mouthed silently to the room. Then he'd tested it out. Said it aloud because he didn't believe it. He _couldn't_ believe it. Maybe if he could hear the thing, he could come to some better determination.    
  
“ _Julian,_ my... _k'hshlimouv?_ ” the words had tumbled out from somewhere deep inside, suspending in a question: _could it be?_  
  
“ _My_ Julian. My _k'hshlim,”_ he'd said with building confidence, the revelation rippling through him, bursting from his chest.   
  
_He was in love!_  
  
Oh— _oh._  
  
_Oh, no._  
  
_Oh, he was damned._ Laughter bubbled up from his chest; an elated, angry and self-deprecating thing. _This had to be some kind of cruel joke._  
  
_Oh, what fresh, glorious misery!_  
  
He hadn't meant for this. It was one thing to woo into bed a dear friend for a tryst—he knew he cared about the man, and that, unto itself had been a dangerous thing he'd only reluctantly accepted. But this? _This_ changed everything. It wasn't as if Cardassian's mated for life, there was no exact, scientific reason one couldn't love and love again, but there was a damned good reason family was everything—a damned good reason there was barely a word in their language for 'divorce'. His kind may as well have been wired as Vulcans or Klingons for how barely different they were in this _particular_ regard.   
  
The difference was, (as he understood it—having no personal experience with such matters), a courtship would usually have progressed apace to a much further point before such epiphanies would occur to oneself. Upon the merest, first flicker of recognition of attraction, it wasn't uncommon for one— _not Garak—_ to reflect upon the thing and determine its viability—its _feasibility_ for the greatest commitment one could make outside of his obligation to the State. (A very logical response for such a purely emotional matter.)   
  
If none could be found, one could either pursue a casual, sexual liaison or let the thing fizzle out. It wasn't all that complicated.   
  
Whatever had given Garak the impression he was a _smart man?_ How absurdly thick he'd been! To mistake his own intentions like this, to ignore such an obvious thing... _it boggled the mind!_   
  
In hindsight, he was really quite embarrassed.   
  
Why hadn't he reflected on this subject sooner?    
  
Perhaps it was because Julian was male. Male _and_ alien. Two strikes. Two very significant issues.   
  
Garak loved his people more than anything, but he could not support their overall regressive social attitude. This generalized superiority complex and sense of entitlement—this inexcusable, unproductive _prejudice—_ but, it wasn't the people individually, it was the group think born or systematic repression—advocated by this upper echelon that either controlled, influenced or held leverage over the government. Why? Because who profited the most from maintaining conservative values?   
  
As long as the body of the Cardassian Government remained an untouchable entity, Garak could never marry. At least not whom he wanted. At least, not without inviting further condemnation. It wasn't so much that he cared about public opinion for himself, he'd always moved beneath the shadows and when he hadn't, he endured far worse abuse than a little societal exclusion and a few tittering tongues or wagging fingers, but he could not abide the thought of this dear, gentle man whom cared far too much about what others thought of him, suffering such unfair derision. It would prick at him every day...Garak could imagine Julian wondering why he hadn't simply stuck with women, or _you know,_ at least within the scope of his Federation.   
  
And Garak could not be anything other than he was. He could not change the fact that he was male or Cardassian and never in a million years would he want to. But it did pose a challenge. Because, what did Julian even know about him? Very, _very_ little. (Or a lot, depending on one's point of view.) But, what did Julian know about Cardassia or its people? What did he know of their traditions and codes and their rites and ethics? Clearly, enough to dispute and impugn. Garak had his own criticisms of his world, but he wasn't keen on listening to any from some ardent admirer of the Federation.      
  
The one saving grace in all this, was that, as long as they remained aboard DS9 (which implied Garak would never be free to go home, even if such an opportunity arose), they _might_ be safe from this kind of persecution. Might. Unlikely though on this _Bajoran infested station_ —a people that neither cared for Garak, Garak's motherland as whole, or same-sex relations. And then there was Starfleet to think of and Julian's career. What would be the impact? The Federation was, at _best_ on talking terms with Cardassia.  
What would the top brass think? Would Julian even be liable to reprimand? Demotion? Expulsion?  
  
Garak wasn't sure if Julian had considered it, but should their relationship progress in any fashion beyond friendship, it would always have to remain discreet. This wasn't anything Garak had a problem with, as he preferred to retain an air of obscurity, but Julian was such a candid, honest man—wasn't he? Sometimes Garak wasn't altogether too sure what wheels were turning in that pretty head of his, but he didn't think Julian would feel too comfortable hiding such an important facet of his life from the Lieutenant or his Chief Engineer.    
  
On another, no less salient note, what did Julian even know about his biology outside of the most meager of data he could gather from observation along with any, slim, vague comment or another pulled up from the Starfleet medical database? What did he know of his anatomy—of how to please a Cardassian male? He couldn't know anything, there was nothing on record of it. Cardassians were not _only_ an defensively insulated race they were intensely private about such intimate matters. This human of his would be a babe in the woods, he wouldn't know the first thing to do with Garak. He knew nothing of the erogenous zones of his ridges or how exactly he should handle him during love making. He hardly knew what was under his shirt let alone between his legs! He knew the Doctor had a rather _daring_ appetite, but perhaps the combination of both Garak's gender and physical differences might be just a bit too overwhelming. It was preposterous to even consider pursuing this further...  
  
But when had Julian Bashir this intrepid man, ever backed down from a good challenge? And really, there was something quite evocative about the idea of _teaching him._  
  
_Still,_ aside from everything else, one of the more troubling aspects of all of this was that Garak had nothing to offer the man. No security, no wealth, no permanent house, no land—he certainly wasn't constructed to give him children if that happened to be something he would come to desire, and for that matter, would his equipment be enough to even maintain his interest? What did he know of fealty—of unswerving devotion? Of honoring one's oath beyond to that of a cause or a lauded ideal? Was he even capable of honoring such vows? Julian was a fickle thing—not what one would call _'marriage material',_ and he seemed to rather enthusiastically prefer the feminine form, something Garak couldn't even pretend to resemble.   
  
Then there was the fact that Garak had made far too many enemies over the years to ever promise a lover a safe, stable home and peace of mind. And, he was an exile, a murderer _many times over_ , a liar and a fraud, leery to trust, and reliably untrustworthy. Julian had a habit of wanting to fix people and Garak couldn't be fixed. He didn't _want_ to be fixed—could this gentle, good man forgive these aspects and accept him as he was? He'd made far too many enemies over the years to ever promise a lover a safe, stable home and peace of mind.   
  
Also, Julian was a very _young_ man, and would he even be ready to settle down? He somehow doubted it. Garak wasn't past his prime by any means, but he certainly had a good decade or more on the Doctor. By Cardassian standards, he was a quite past the ideal age to be any ideal prospect.    
  
(Ah, _round and round we go..._ )  
  
All of this circular logic was just an exercise in futility. He knew damn well he'd already come to a decision—it had practically made itself up for him. It might be reckless, it might be selfish, and it would likely result in a devastating, irreparable dissolution of their friendship, and it certainly promised of an unmendable, broken heart for Garak, but... _alas,_ the heart wants what it wants. And, if everything did happen to end in a tragedy reminiscent of one of _Cylon Pareg's_ marvelously depressing poems, then...well at least Garak wouldn't be surprised.   
  
And now, Julian had every appearance of being quite invested in Garak's pursuit, so, _too little too late._ He couldn't back out of this now without causing the rift he'd feared in the first place. He didn't mean to doom the thing before it even started, but the math for long-term success was grim.   
  
Perhaps he should start making alternative arrangements now, just in case. A safety net. Toss out a line, see if he couldn't make friends with some captain of one the freighters that occasionally would visit the station, inquire if there might be an acceptable amount to secure passage for a stowaway—a one-way-ticket free of an expiration date.   
  
In the mean time, his attention had been drawn to more pressing matters—  
  
Ziyal, he'd noticed, was now watching him too—but to what end? Was she trying to figure him out as so many others before her had done and failed? Or was she trying to figure out when she could catch him alone and off guard? Not an easy feat, he'd admit. He would be impressed to see her try.   
  
And then, she'd succeeded—accidentally, of course, but still, an unexpected turn of events for Garak, who was usually prepared to counter such potentials. _Where in Iloça's seven sigils, was Julian?_ He'd stormed off after a startling (if not a _touch_ charming) pique of jealousy after the springball match and Garak hadn't been able to make heads or tails of where he'd escaped to.   
  
He peered over at the young woman suspiciously. “You're not going to hurt me are you?” Garak asked half in jest.     
  
Ziyal's eyes widened in surprise. _Who me?_ After a beat, she smiled a little, finally getting the joke.  
  
“Normally I would simply make a strategic withdrawal at the first sign of trouble, but there doesn't seem to be any way out of here.”  
  
“You could always call Security,” she suggested, teasing him back a little.   
  
“True,” Garak conceded, “But it would take several minutes for them to arrive, and by then... _it might be too late._ ”  
  
This almost provoked a laugh, instead, just the smallest gasp of amusement slipped out before she refocused her attention on the the door in front of them.   
  
“I don't think I'll hurt you,” Ziyal replied softly.    
  
“I'm gratified to hear it.”  
  
“In fact—” she continued, “I think it's safe to say you have nothing to fear from me.”  
  
If she could be believed, it was some relief.   
  
When the lift's doors finally opened on the main level of the promenade, Garak decided to walk with her for a minute. This far too interesting to end so soon. He struck up a trivial conversation—pointed out an item of interest in a shop's window, cracked a joke or two, observed how she smiled.   
_Hm,_ he thought, as he watched Ziyal depart toward the East entrance of the habitat ring. C _risis averted...possibly, anyway._  
  
As Garak turned around to head to the replimat to grab a quick bite of dinner before investigating the whereabouts of his missing Doctor, he espied the man at Quark's, engaged in conversation with a rather attractive Bajoran dabo girl. He felt himself frowning a little, but jealousy was _definitely_ neither attractive nor productive. _Oh, but he didn't like the way she was leaning into him, nor the rapid blinking he suspected might be one of those odd human traits indicative of flirtation._  
  
He also didn't quite appreciate the way Julian's body language conveyed some mutual interest. Just who was this...this _interloper?_   
  
And, apparently his less that wholly discreet observation hadn't gone undetected, as Julian caught his eye for a second without much surprise, (as if he'd already spotted him)—which, _Garak considered,_ perhaps he had. He had strolled in with Ziyal and been rather preoccupied...  
  
Caught red-handed, Garak shrugged and flashed him a slightly abashed grin—and was that...was that some sort of faint, _challenge_ in the expression the Doctor returned? _Oh dear._  
  
He really hoped he hadn't actually given the poor thing too wrong of an impression at the tournament. He'd only been teasing, something he was positive his darling would be certain to pick up on. If he was to take this at face value, did this mean Julian was returning the prank?   
  
_Ah, yes. Now he recognized the girl._ Linda wasn't it? Leena...? _Leeta._ Just another of the Doctor's friends. A newer one certainly, but a friend none the less. And a notorious flirt at that. Nothing to get up in arms about.     
  
Still. It rankled that he could jump to such conclusions with so little evidence. Of course, he was understandably lacking in some self-confidence when it came to his k'hshlim and the man's rather suggestive record with regard to the fairer sex, but it was quite telling of his own sorry state that he was already exhibiting such possessive behaviors.   
  
With a small, resigned sigh he decided there would be no real harm in letting Julian have his fun at his expense. He did slightly deserve it after all.  
  
Later that afternoon, while working on some clothes, Ziyal stopped in. Once again, she'd surprised him. He wasn't accustomed to being so caught off-guard, but it certainly renewed for Ziyal both his respect and suspicions. She'd made a little small talk, strolled around his shop rather aimlessly, distractedly pretending to admire his clothing displays (a tactic more than a few individuals had used in the past as an excuse for lurking), and then she'd invited him to join her in a Cardassian sauna holosuite program with the premise that the 'temperature would be too hot for anyone else on the station to join her'.   
  
Oh... _Oh._  
  
What a fascinating new aspect of this strange young woman. What kind of game did she think she was playing at? With _him_ of all people. Was she really this clueless, or was she really just _that_ reckless?  
  
_Children shouldn't play with matches, my dear._  
  
And then, _oh ho ho,_ Kira had stormed into his shop and thrown him rather abruptly into a wall, looked his square and the eye and warned him in the manner of a parent, fiercely guarding her precious daughter's virtue from the lothario trying to steal it from her. Quite the confirmation, indeed.   
  
But that didn't preclude the notion that Dukat had groomed Ziyal, that he'd been coaching her along in some, sly attempt at seduction to lure Garak into his trap.   
  
So naturally, when he'd met her in the holosuite two days later, he used a more direct approach, keeping his phaser carefully hidden behind him.   
  
“Doesn't it feel good?” She asked. “The station can be so... _chilly_ sometimes.”  
  
“Yes, it's quite pleasant.”  
  
Ziyal looked at him quizzically. “Aren't you going to lie down?”  
  
Garak smiled smoothly. “Not just yet. I have a question I'd like answered first. Why am I here?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Why am I here?” he repeated. “Am I to believe that you really invited the sworn enemy of your father to the holosuite just to...enjoy the heat?”  
  
Ziyal sat up, eyeing him calmly. Underneath her expression, there was some kind of _inner steel_ glinting through the surface. “You really think I asked you here to kill you? Well, it did occur to me.”   
  
Garak blinked in slight surprise and the young woman continued. “Kira and my father both told me that you used to be an agent of the Obsidian Order...that you had my grandfather tortured and killed...and that you could easily kill me without a second thought.”  
  
_Sly observation. Well expressed._ Garak was impressed.   
  
He smiled coolly. “Although I seldom credit either the major or your father with being entirely trustworthy, in this case, they're both telling the truth.”  
  
Ziyal didn't even so much as flinch at this admission. “You know what else is true? I don't care. I'm half-Bajoran and that means I'm an outcast back home. I can't go back and neither can you, so we can either share some time together or we can ignore each other. I spent _five years_ in a prisoner of war camp by myself. I don't need your company,” she paused, and her smile softened. “But, if you want to stay and share the heat with me...maybe tell me something about home that I don't know...then I would welcome your company. And I get the feeling you'd welcome mine. Either way, it's up to you.”   
  
_How refreshing, how charming_ , Garak thought for the second time in his life in a very short time.  
  
They began a tentative friendship, one which he'd neither been expecting nor seeking, but he certainly didn't mind.   
  
Tora Ziyal was admittedly, a _lovely child._ Her genetic resemblance to her father's kin was uncanny. With the exception of her mother-race's ridged nose—(a forgivable, _trivial_ incongruity easily discounted, with her scaled skin and satiny, dove-gray complexion, her soft, raven hair, she woke in Garak a burgeoning nostalgia; that latent, irrepressible longing to be again among his own. However, Cardassian women were generally a shrewder sort; cosmopolitan in mien regardless of experience or class, and had the young woman been brought up in her paternal home, this would doubtlessly be reflected in her mannerisms. As she was, this innocent seemed younger than her years, unsophisticated. Not unlike Julian when they'd first met. Because, at first, she wandered about the station as if she'd just awoken from a long, strange dream into another even _stranger_ one; there was something tragic and chimeric about her he couldn't quite place—as if she were some kind of Ancient Hebitian goddess of myth stepped out from Oralian folklore.    
  
But then, _just like Julian,_ Garak had learned she had hidden dimensions.   
  
All the pain and difficulty of her short, young life had molded her into an astute, compassionate young woman. There were times she seemed far wiser than her years, and it saddened Garak in a way he hadn't anticipated, but it had also sparked the smallest, strange feeling of pride of an origin he couldn't place within himself.   
  


Sometimes, Ziyal exposed another side, a playful, flirtation one he couldn't help but respond to rather reflexively—not because he was at all interested in this _little girl_ , mind, but because it was _so very much like Julian,_ that Garak's ingrained response was an unconscious, natural one that often reciprocated in kind...and he worried a little what kind of impression he might be giving her.   
  
Which brought him to another question: what was he doing with her? And shouldn't he be more careful?    
  
Ziyal was such a peculiar, ethereal, unsettling creature, and she provoked in Garak a deep, latent, instinctive urge—a paternal one almost. Protective. He was certainly fond of her. Fond and bewildered and charmed. He admired her. He saw potential he could mold and shape. And he was even flattered by her interest.   
  
What an unusual turn of events.    
  
And then, because his full attention hadn't been fully on Julian for just this once, he'd been missing something rather crucial going on behind his back.    
  
Not so terribly long ago, Garak had considered sacrificing any final hope of ever going home again just to spare _this man_ some discomfort. He'd pondered _marriage_ with this man. _Not something any Cardassian took lightly,_ and _especially_ not Garak.   
  
This was the man he could wax poetic about—a man he would go to the ends of the world for, whom he would _kill for gladly._ Whom, he imagined he would even die for himself if it came down to it.   
  
This man—his _darling, lovely, precious Doctor—_  
  
_Whom Garak was convinced he'd never be worthy of—_  
  
— _In a fit of sheer pettiness had..._   
  
Garak, couldn't even wrap his mind around it.   
  
Frozen, mouth slightly agape, he stood at the edge of the bar and watched as this demanding, selfish and self-absorbed little tart kissed that Bajoran floozy of his in the middle of the afternoon like it was only _perfectly natural..._ like there was no reason in the universe he could fathom why this wasn't a _brilliant idea._  
  
And Garak couldn't decide whether he was more furious at such idiocy and blatant disrespect or amused by the Doctor's sheer audacity. _Oh, he knew better than to believe Julian had simply given up on him so easily._   
  
_This was some dirty pool._  
  
When Julian pulled back, for just the most fleeting of seconds he caught Garak's eye with something crossed between smug victory and a dare.   
  
If this were a game of one upmanship, then yes, he had Garak beat, but Garak, not one for surrendering without a good fight, could counter that move and Julian, _dear Julian_ would have to count his losses.   
  
He just hoped he wasn't _too_ sore a loser.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of research and spent a ridiculous amount of time analyzing anything from Memory Alpha and Beta(b/c at this point, I'm now considering both these resources as 'canon') I could collect on Cardassian language just to make that one hecking sentence. It's, as far as I can say, the best approximation one can get to a legitimate translation for fictional language with very little to work from. I even think I've got a grasp on sentence structure, word order and grammar. 
> 
> Anyway, because of this, I feel like I might be able to be a decent resource for future questions regarding the subject. Tinsnip has definitely fleshed out a great dictionary too, but if you want something that is as close to canon as you can get, drop me a line. 
> 
> Without further ado, here are some translations of words peppered throughout this chapter. 
> 
> ghentregămst - illegitimate child  
> măgath - snake (G called Dukat this)  
> legna k'verkoun - young/divine sun  
> pret krinek - lovely/beautiful spark  
> k'hshlimouv - 'my' beloved (non-canon)  
> -ouv (suffix) - conveys 'my'


	9. Chapter 9

Garak had contemplated exile from exile, but internment  _ within  _ exile was a whole other animal altogether. 

Now, having lived the experience, he'd become something of a reluctant expert on the subject. What it looked like was three walls positioned far too closely together for his taste and a transparent force field looking out on the cell block, giving the illusion of freedom. However, the unpleasant zap that repelled him backward sufficiently dispelled the notion.

Behind this invisible barrier, Garak was an exhibit, a warning against treason. _Well—at least sabotage and assault anyway._ Treason was more of a... _negotiable_ term when factoring into consideration the exact nature of his occupancy aboard the station _and_ the current climate between Cardassia and the Federation _not withstanding._

What it had looked like from the interior, (and in particular for Garak) was nerve-wracking claustrophobia, mind-numbing boredom and a maddening impediment preventing him from taking the necessary action to save Cardassia—and by extension, the entirety of the Alpha Quadrant—something the Federation, in its insufferable, sanctimonious ineptitude was  _ apparently _ ambivalent about.

Well, not _ambivalent,_ but certainly foolhardy and revoltingly optimistic. _They_ wanted to avoid war, but the threat was an inevitable one, looming on just the edge of the horizon. What were they hoping for? What did they honestly expect to achieve? What kind of accord were they striving to gain by diplomacy—by some fruitless, unfeasible attempt to appeal to the better nature and higher logic of a species that couldn't begin to identify with their own? What use was there in negotiating peace with the zealotry of a scornful, spiteful God? _It beggared belief._

Had it not been for that intractable, _blockheaded_ Klingon, Garak could have successfully felled the threat in its tracks. After all, what was the Dominion without its Gods? By razing the Founder's very own homeworld; obliterating it entirely from the map altogether—by severing the Great Link, what real, significant danger would either the Vorta or Jem'Hadar even pose? What was any battalion of soldiers without its control center—without its _raison d'etre_?  

Sure, they might encounter a vengeful backlash, but the Vorta were neither warriors by design nor were the Jem'Hadar effective without the supplement of that one, vital isogenic enzyme, and it wouldn't be any major feat to wipe out its production. A few intergalactic embargoes and aggressively policed neutral zones would be all it would take to effectively suppress distribution.

Sans _only_ ketracel-white, it would be mere child's play to bring the demoralized campaign to its knees.

If only Garak had gotten to the launch controls a few seconds sooner— _if only he could've made Worf see reason._ But, _alas,_ there was no point choking on sour grapes.

Only, it wasn't as if he had much else to do, because, after a while, re-reading the same novels countless times and counting the flecks in the mottling of the beige, duranium-composite walls had begun to lose some appeal. Thus, it was always with some measure of relief when one of the station's guard would announce a visitor. Such an event could usually distract him from those darker thoughts he'd often found himself fruitlessly dwelling over.

As for such visitors, while there was very little variety in their faces, this was a fact that neither surprised him nor diminished his gratitude.

Occasionally Odo would drop by to report on the latest of whatever he deemed as noteworthy news, and although he always made certain to censor such material in a way that ensured even the most eventful of events sounded a trifle banal, Garak appreciated the fact that the Constable was under no obligation to do so in the first place. He knew it was only with respect to their odd, tenuous friendship that the changeling made such an attempt.

More to the point,  _ any _ endeavor to break up the monotony was a lovely gesture unto itself.

Once in a rare great while, Lieutenant Dax would even deign to pop her head in; an unexpected treat considering he hardly regarded the officer as any more than a polite acquaintance at best and... _ in all honesty,  _ a latent threat at worst. It wasn't too easy to forget how utterly besotted Julian had been with this particularly fascinating and attractive young woman in the beginning. Still, Garak enjoyed her company, even if he did sometimes suspect a somewhat disingenuous motive behind her visits, because sometimes, it seemed like such endeavors were more or less for her own entertainment than out of any  _ real  _ generosity on her part. Particularly considering Jadzia had something of a peculiar habit of hinting at deeply incendiary subject matter while couching it in the senselessly trivial—a thing done in such a way, he sensed was purposefully meant to provoke him. For example: much of the Trill's gossip often included sly references to Doctor Bashir with additional, off-handed and unasked for commentary regarding his relationship with a certain dabo girl Garak wasn't terribly fond of thinking about.  _ Ah, but wasn't she too clever for her own good! _ He'd made sure to add a mental note to be more mindful around her in the future.  

As for the Doctor, his absence over the months was felt as keenly as a cleaver to the heart. _Oh,_ the man would spare him a moment or two once every other month or so, but their chats were brief and left something to be desired. Of course, Garak conceded that discretion was indeed the _better part of valor_. After all, there were certain topics which, by nature of necessity as well as by nature of their content, were naturally off limits within their current environment. Still, Julian was a clever lad, and he certainly had enough material at his disposal to conduct with him a coded conversation if he'd had any inclination to do so. But _alas,_ not a sly reference laden in subtext was to be exchanged between them and any attempt Garak would make to do so had, on more than one occasion, failed in yielding this outcome.

The only thing that provided him any comfort about the matter was that the young man _had_ admitted that he couldn't fault Garak for the actions that had landed him in lock up. _Mind,_ he couldn't approve and he certainly couldn't agree, but he didn't hold it against him, and that was... _perhaps_ more forgiveness than Garak had expected or deserved from a man whose life would have undoubtedly been sacrificed along with his own for the cause.

Yet, there was still but one, single instance between them in the entirety of his sentence which had buoyed in Garak the smallest of hopes:

“ _ I recall you mentioned something to Odo of your time as a gardener...of your fondness for the Edosian orchid,”  _ Julian had mused. “ _ Didn't you say it was among one of your...'specialties'?” _

“ _ Ah, yes. It was indeed a particular conceit of mine,”  _ Garak had replied openly-ended, curious as to where this was leading.

Julian had looked at him then with a strange smile he couldn't quite place.

“ _ I thought you might be interested to know, I made some...discreet inquiries with Keiko regarding the subject and she informed me that she would be delighted to suggest a...less toxic cousin to the florist, something he'd likely consider stocking in the future.” _

What an astonishing, magnanimous gesture!

“ _How considerate. Such a thoughtful lad,”_ Garak had remarked a little breathlessly, hiding his genuine thrill behind a wide, toothy grin. ( _And if his eyes had shone a bit too brightly for just the most fleeting of seconds, well...that wouldn't be the worst of calamities._ )

Sadly, that had been the extent of anything before the Doctor had gone away for some medical conference or another and then, as soon as he'd returned, Garak had been expecting him to visit again—preparing for  _ weeks  _ for their next exchange... he'd read up on some more Shakespeare, something the young man had always seemed to be convinced was absolutely crucial to understanding Terran humanity...

Only instead, the moment the Doctor had returned, he'd flit off again to Risa, that notorious favorite Starfleet escape; that sensualist's paradise rife with hedonism and debauchery—the ideal retreat to take a holiday with one's paramour—and naturally, because the entire universe apparently hated Garak, Julian had taken  _ Leeta.  _ It was all he could do not to pound his fists against his pillow and bang his head against the wall.

At night, while miserably laying upon his narrow cot, his back aching against the thin, unforgiving mattress, he'd find himself victim to a torrent of unwelcome visions of  _ his k'hshlim  _ atop some glorious, plush bed, rolling around in the sheets with that  _ harlot _ ...that  _ thief... _ that vapid, air-headed  _ succubus _ — giving her every pleasure Garak wanted for himself and surrendering to every pleasure Garak would commit any sin to give him.   

_ Oh, how he'd languished... agonizingly jealous and resentful and terribly aroused with no privacy to do anything about it. _

Thus, when dear, lovely Ziyal would pay him a visit—(a thankfully frequent occurrence), her reception was always met with the tenderest, most thankful of smiles; her company reliably proving to be the balm his aching heart so desperately needed.

The thing was, the holding cell wasn't any impenetrable cage. Not for Garak, and both he and Odo knew it—even Sisko likely suspected as much. In essence, the physical nature of his confinement was only  _ truly  _ a symbolic one. All it would take was a cleverly timed faked medical emergency during a crisis aboard the station requiring all vital security personnel, neutralization of an unsuspecting stand-in guard, a little tampering with the stun setting of a phaser pointed at the most vulnerable point of the force field to sufficiently alter the particle density of the plasma, and Garak would be a free man...(well, at least as soon as he managed to cut a bribe with a captain of one of the docked freighters and stowaway aboard.) In the end, it would be a lot more trouble and inconvenience than it would be worth. He was already considered an enemy of the state, and adding the Federation to that list didn't leave him many options. Garak was really getting too old to lead a life on the lam and he didn't have much in the way of that intrepid, faith-fueled fortitude of Hugo's  _ Valjean. _

Besides, a six-month stint, while by no means a pleasant one, (contained as he was among the  _ meagerest _ of necessities, bereft of all save the merest of creature comforts; a novel or two as permitted and the luxury of the extra blanket prudently provided by the good Constable—a rigid, but not  _ unkind  _ gatekeeper), was hardly too intolerable to endure, because Garak knew that upon release, he could return to his life. Although the experience was an impeded one with more than its fair share of obstacles, living any other had less appeal than it once did.

_ Because, even if the Federation's inaction would likely doom them all— _ at least in the meantime, for whatever time remained, for the first time in his life, Garak wasn’t completely alone.

How odd it was to find himself the unwitting recipient of another's good will, graced by both compassion without agenda and genuine friendship. He'd never expected nor anticipated such developments. He hadn't asked for such a thing. He'd warded himself against the potential, yet regardless, those bonds—whether forged by accident or strange coincidence, had now become so integral to the very core of his being, he couldn't imagine his existence now without it. Odo and Ziyal and even Jadzia's simple acts of kindness had moved him— _ transformed _ him even.

But, in spite of everything, only Julian Bashir had managed to strip him bare. Regardless of whether the young man was aware, _regardless of whether he'd_ _ever intended to be—_ Julian Bashir was his redemption.

Garak had been _so_ certain they'd been on the verge of starting something those beautiful few weeks, but then, he'd been sidetracked with first his paranoia of Ziyal, and then, his fondness for the girl. Perhaps initially he'd missed the somersaults Julian had been doing in the sidelines to get his attention, but then...he'd certainly succeeded in catching Garak's _undivided_ attention with Leeta. He'd expected the man would drop the act at that point, only instead, he'd persisted wooing the girl.

Garak hadn't been put off by this. The Doctor knew enough of Cardassian courtship practices, and while garnering jealousy wasn't among the most commonly employed of tactics, a bit of playful antagonism was only to be expected. Thus, he'd assumed this was the game the young man was playing at and played along in kind, taking advantage of the convenience of Ziyal's infatuation with him, using it against Julian and  upping the ante _. _

In retrospect, it was a thoughtless, juvenile maneuver; one he hadn't given mind to considering the consequences of, and—one which had undoubtedly resulted in unmitigated disaster on two fronts.

For one, Garak had clearly, _profoundly_ misread both the situation _and_ his opponent. This... _unfounded_ insecurity of the Doctor's was charming at first, something he could understand as an instigating cause for this game he'd thought they were playing, but the young man hadn't been playing any games after all. _No,_ he'd been genuinely jealous and genuinely determined to inspire the same of Garak. And failing that? Content to... _to what?_ Find solace in the sheets of some _rebound?_

_ Oh, and wasn't she some poor substitution!  _ He could confidently say the Doctor had very little clue as to what he was missing. Garak certainly wouldn't have the most  _ hands-on  _ knowledge of the young man's body—not specifically per-say, but he had a firm handle on several techniques that had never failed to evoke bliss in any partner of similar design and he was a very  _ quick  _ study. What could some mere fling offer? Certainly very little in the way of either his degree of motivation or expertise.  

But, how was it Julian had happened to belabor under such astounding misapprehensions? Surely the young man had to know of his regard. Garak couldn't quite put his finger on it. Had he really been so  _ opaque? _

Only, there had been that one particularly poignant conversation—the one in which he'd related to the Doctor Cardassia's less than accommodating sentiments regarding those relationships deviating from their staunch traditions and Julian had not been the first to point out that Garak was something of a traditionalist himself (and wasn't this almost laughably absurd? Oh, without doubt his devotion to the state was an unswerving one, but how little had he ever fit the standard mold?) Regardless, in the Doctor's eyes he was the very quintessence of his race.

Thus, perhaps, upon observing Garak's admittedly less than straight-forward interest in Ziyal, he'd wondered at his intentions—wondered if his friend hadn't suffered some kind of last-minute change-of-heart. And of course, because the one time Garak's well-honed intuition had to fail him, blind to the young man's speculations and working off his own incorrect assumptions, he'd only succeeded confirming the notion.

What a stupid, regrettable catastrophe!

_ How easily such ridiculous misconceptions might have been avoided! _

And what had his antics accomplished—aside from all but  _ shoving  _ his k'hshlim into another's arms?

Shame. _Shame beyond reckoning._ How detestably he'd abused both Ziyal's sorely misplaced trust and unfortunate, misguided affection for him. How despicably he'd led her on, that blamelessly sweet summer child. _Oh,_ his actions had been ambiguous enough from the surface—the outward show of his intentions arguably innocent all but to himself and the Doctor. He'd never crossed that bridge into explicit intimacy with her—but those small, affectionate displays: the touch of palms upon greeting or departure, permitting prolonged contact between their elbows or shoulders, all of this had been more than enough to convince a young woman her feelings might be requited.  

The worst, most criminal part of this was, he'd allowed this to persist. Out of selfishness, out of loneliness, out of spite and sadness, he'd not lifted a single finger to discourage her.   

By the time Garak had finally been released, with Julian still away on Risa and only the reopening of his shop to attend to (a task he wasn't looking forward to considering the stack of back orders he knew would be waiting for him on his desk)—and finally, with some desperation to put some distance between himself and Ziyal, whose hopeful, amorous eyes he was responsible for but not quite so willing to deal with now that there was no literal barrier between them, found himself eagerly volunteering to attend the upcoming Bajoran conference.

Obviously, the bit with the plasma anomaly had not been exactly on his agenda, but _ah, well..._ what was it that one, Terran author had said once of _'best laid plans...'?_ Afterward, he couldn't help but observe a noticeable rift between the Constable and the Major, something that had resulted in a despondency in the Changeling that had tugged at Garak's heart in a keenly poignant way he recognized...

_ Why, _ if he didn't know any better, Garak would think... _ oh. _

_ Oh, poor Odo! _

So  _ Odo'ital  _ was not such an 'unknown sample' after all!  _ In fact, _ perhaps he was a man after Garak's own heart: in hopeless pursuit of impossible romance—a luxury he'd never thought to afford himself and yet one he couldn't purge himself of no matter his grasp of its very futility.

Garak resolved then and there to go out of his way to keep the Constable company—a service the man had once done for him. He would neither ask nor advise—not only would such a deed be taking unwelcome liberties, but it would likely invite speculation back onto himself. Odo was an astute observer, and if it weren't for the camouflage provided courtesy of Ziyal, Garak had no doubt his friend would likely put two-and-two together on certain matters best left well locked behind closed doors.

Speaking of surprising observations, Garak had made one or two of his own lately.

First, (and not so surprisingly), one Julian had returned, he'd reverted back to his prior, evasive behavior. He stuck close to his fellow officers, particularly glued to the hip of the Chief Engineer.  _ That is— _ until Kira gave birth to the O'Brien's child and the man had little time to spare for his clinging,  _ moping  _ friend. Afterward, the Doctor kept mostly to himself. He painted quite the tragic figure, sitting alone in the cafeteria in the middle of the afternoon, morosely picking at his food with little interest, rather pointedly avoiding so much as glancing in Garak's direction as he sat with Ziyal....it all reeked a bit of some kind of obvious plea for either attention or sympathy, neither of which Garak could quite discern a reason for.

That is, until he noticed something even  _ more  _ curious. One evening while passing through the promenade, he happened to catch sight of Leeta engaged in an extremely interesting exchange with  _ Rom.  _ Somewhat unhappily and overly familiar with the young woman's methods when it came to showing her interest, he watched with amazement as she proceeded to flirt with the flustered Ferengi, whom, nearly every bit as astonished as Garak, stuttered and stumbled inelegantly, flushing fuchsia up to his lobes.   

“ You might want to shut your jaw before you catch a Misian bogfly in your mouth,” Quark remarked, quirking a wry grin.  

Garak shot a glance at the barkeep. “I have no idea what you're referring to. I assure you my mouth was quite closed.”

_ Why was it he always seemed to be an open book to this Ferengi? _

“ Don't look at me if you want to pick a fight, but if you're going to stand there and gawk, you might as well take a seat and order something while you're at it,” Quark defended.

“ I was merely passing through.”

“ Well either pass through faster, or I'll have to show you out.  You know I don't appreciate  loiterers in my establishment,” Quark pointed out. “However, if you're inclined to be a paying customer, that's another story.”

Surrendering to the Ferengi's persuasive logic and eager to see whether he might be willing to shed some light on the subject, Garak took a stool at the bar.

“ You're wondering about Rom and Leeta I take it?” Quark asked, folding his arms over the counter.

“ Ever the psychic, aren't you?” Garak smirked.

“ Hey,  it's in the job description ,” Quark replied easily.

“ Perhaps your real father was Betazoid,” Garak supplied, cracking a grin.

“ Perhaps you should think twice before slandering my Moogie. Rule of acquisition thirty-one:  _ Never make fun of a Ferengi's mother. _ ”

“Oh, I meant _no_ offense,” Garak replied smoothly. “You are, after all, an exemplary model of your species.”

“ I'll take that as a compliment,” Quark replied. “As they say, 'you catch more flies with honey'.”

_ 'And a little flattery can get you everywhere', Garak considered. _

“ Considering how clever you are, I assume you can shed some light on the subject,” he prompted, directing a pointed glance over at the dabo girl. She had returned to serving her tables and there was no sign of Rom. He imagined the bashful Ferengi had likely fled somewhere to hide.

“ I was under the impression Leeta was spoken for?”

“ I was under the impression you were better friends with Doctor Bashir. Shouldn't  _ you  _ know?”

_ Oh, how to answer that without raising any suspicion! _

“ We've both been rather busy lately,” Garak responded evenly, sparing no room for further inquiry.

“ _ Huh, _ ”  Quark returned, eyeing him suspiciously anyway. “Well, to answer your question, only a short while back Leeta and the Doctor went off to Risa together to conduct the 'Rite of Separation'. It's an old Bajoran custom,” he explained with a dismissive shrug.

_ Ah, very interesting news! _

Garak kept his face impassive. “And I don't suppose either happened to cite a reason for their split?”

“ I couldn't say,” Quark demurred. “Well, really, I  _ shouldn't  _ say.”

Not unfamiliar with how often one had to pull teeth with this Ferengi, Garak sighed impatiently and pulled out his wallet. “I think I'll order a brandy. Let's make it  _ top shelf _ .”

(Which with this proprietor was always code for:  _ 'spill the beans.' _ )

_ Although _ ...Garak had never been entirely sure how spilling of said legumes had anything to do with sharing gossip.

“ Will Saurian do?”

Garak groaned inwardly. That would be a heavier expense than he could readily afford after half-a-year out of work.

“Well,” Quark paused, noting his reluctance thoughtfully, “Considering your recent, _rather unfortunate_ circumstances, perhaps I might suggest a decent and _somewhat_ more affordable Antarean?”

(Which Garak was aware still would serve some  _ lamentable  _ sticker-shock.)

“ _ That should suffice, _ ”  he muttered through gritted teeth behind a tight-lipped smile.

“ Honestly, Garak, I do... _ hesitate _ to say anything, it's not exactly any of my business,” Quark mused as he poured the glass. “Although, one wonders if it isn't perhaps  _ yours _ ,” he slyly reconsidered.

“ Kindly desist needling me, Quark,” Garak advised. “I think you  _ might  _ be barking up the wrong tree. I'm merely curious.”

“ Very well, my  _ inquisitive  _ friend,” Quark sighed, holding up his hands. “I get the  _ message...loud and clear.” _

Garak wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

“ It's actually all quite simple,” the Ferengi continued. “Leeta has a thing for Rom. So, they broke it off. I can't applaud her for her taste, I really don't know what she sees in my brother,  _ of all people... _ but then, perhaps our friend the Doctor is not to everyone's taste either. At least, aside from myself,  _ present company excluded _ . ”

Garak narrowed his eyes. “I would _appreciate_ if you didn't expound upon that.”

“ _ Oh,  _ don't worry, Garak,” Quark smirked. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“ I really don't know what makes you think I have anything to hide. As boring as it sounds, there is  _ no secret. _ ”  Garak countered, maintaining a modulated tone.

“Well, I should say not, you have been _pretty_ obvious about it,” Quark chuckled. “At least until recently. But I suppose your new little lady friend _is_ quite appealing.”

He didn't throw out any objection to the comment, pleased to find safer ground.

“ Oh, I agree,” Garak replied, downing the rest of his drink. “And on that note, I should be on my way. An enlightening conversation as always, my friend.”

“ Oh, as  _ always, _ ”  Quark agreed with a devious glint in his eye.

 

<~>

 

“ Hallo Garak!” Julian greeted, strolling into his shop with a surprisingly chipper grin.

“ Ah, Doctor, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“ Well, it occurred to me that it's been nearly forever since I last dropped by. Did you miss me?” He asked, his grin buoyant and teasing in a way Garak hadn't seen for over half-a-year in his direction.

“ I'll admit it has been a while.”

Julian pretended to admire a robe, an article chosen quite arbitrarily. “Although, on the other hand, I suppose it  _ could  _ be a relief not having me poking about, running my mouth off... _ cramping your style _ , cluttering up the place...”  

Garak raised a browridge. “I wouldn't go  _ that  _ far,” he defended, intrigued by the young man's unusual about-face. “One might even say you provide quite a pleasant embellishment to the landscape.”

“ _ One _ might,” Julian conceded coolly, “Although...perhaps not  _ you _ , Garak. But, in any case, I've no plan to be merely ornamental.”

“ I should hope someone of your esteemed talents would set loftier ambitions for himself,” he remarked, tactfully evading the question of what the young man's plan might just so happen to be.

Julian eyed him shrewdly. “You never said whether or not you missed me. I  _ was  _ gone for awhile. But then, perhaps you hadn't noticed much of a difference,” he carefully remarked. “After all, you are quite the busy man these days.”

“ An accurate observation,” Garak allowed, just as carefully.

Julian's grin bordered on mischievous. “ _ Ah, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. _ ”

“ Another one of your Terran sayings, I presume?” Garak asked dryly.

“ An old one. But a good saying is like a fine wine. It only gets better with age,” Julian grinned. “As, I expect, do other things.”

Garak was far too wise to fall into _that_ obvious of a trap. “It warms my heart to see you in such good _spirits_.” The pun hadn't missed its mark and Julian's grin ostensibly widened. “So, is this some kind of...intervention? Do you think I'm... _lacking_ for entertainment?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” Julian defended. “I'm sure you're quite satisfied in that regard by the... _company_ you keep of late. I do however wonder if you might be lacking for more scintillating conversation every once in awhile. While I've no doubt your...friendships are engaging enough—one still wonders from time-to-time if you're sufficiently kept on your toes.”

“ Are you suggesting that you're the right man for the job?”  

“ Only if you can't find anyone else in a pinch.”

“ I wouldn't presume to burden you with such busywork, especially when I can't be too certain you're up to the task yourself.”

Julian sauntered lazily toward him. “Now I've lost track! Are you doubting my abilities or my toes?”

“ I wouldn't begin to fathom a reason to doubt your toes,” Garak grinned.

“I'm only making sure your needs are being properly tended to,” Julian defended. “As a... _concerned_ friend, I count the task among my many duties.”

“ I'm  _ touched  _ by your concern, my dear, but one does wonder what such duties all entail.”

Julian feigned a look of innocence. “Why, only to ensure you aren't working yourself to the bone.”

“ Ah, I see. Is that all?”

Julian's eyes swept to the vase of flowers sitting upon the corner of his desk, redirecting Garak's attention. “I see the florist was able to get in those orchids.”

Garak smiled. “Yes, they are lovely, aren't they? I made certain to send my gratitude to Mrs. O'Brien for her kind suggestion.”

The deliberate omission of Julian's own contribution to this endeavor was not lost on the young man, whose only response was a small, frustrated pout. He really could use a few lessons on hiding his emotions, it made him far too easy for Garak to taunt.

Still, this didn't faze the good Doctor for too long. “I'm sure you're asking yourself why I'm so intent on inquiring after your well being.”

“ The question had occurred, yes.”

“ The thing is, truthfully, I've found myself growing rather bored lately,” Julian confessed with a melodramatic sigh. “And...may I be frank?”

”Please,” Garak said, gesturing his go-ahead. “Be my guest. After all, we don't have  _ anything  _ to hide from one another, do we?”

Julian smirked. “Oh, I shouldn't think so.” He watched the young man glance down coyly before his eyes glided up to meet his own again. “I've  _ missed  _ you, Garak.”

What a marvelous confession!  _ If only he could know how it gladdened him to hear him say so.  _ If only Garak wasn't hampered by the patchwork remnants of his pride, a thing that seemed to hold its stitches just well enough to prohibit the option.

“I know you're quite enamored with your... _protege,_ which is partially the reason I've tried to keep my distance, to give you a bit of breathing room. It wouldn't do to be hovering over you while you're _working your charm._ Heaven knows, Miles has had to shoo me off a good time or two. But, if it wouldn't be too dreadful an inconvenience, I was rather hoping you might find somewhere in your very full schedule to pencil me in once in awhile.”

“ I admit, I'm not altogether sure whether you're seeking to book an appointment or arrange a lunch, Doctor.”

Julian meandered over to his desk and leaned his elbows down on the surface to prop up his head. “You don't always have to call me 'Doctor', you know. We're not in the infirmary.”

“ Although, I have been your patient upon occasion,” Garak argued.

“ But right now, you're not.”

“ A curious distinction to make.”

“ You don't have to skirt around the subject, Garak,” Julian scolded.

“ To which are you referring? To drop the appellation or 'pencil you in'?”

Julian straightened back up and the beleaguered look of exasperation that scrunched his face was more than satisfying recompense for whatever past injustices Garak had previously held him accountable for.

_ What a fool he was for this man. _

“ For once in your life, could you maybe just answer a question?”

This time, it was Garak's turn to feign innocence. “You'll have to forgive me. I was under the impression you'd provided me with a pair of suggestions and I  _ do  _ admit to some confusion as to where one might ascertain the presence of a question,” he chuckled. “Not to dismantle your sense of semantics, but it's something to be conscious of, darling.”

Julian's cheeks heated and he ducked his head. “I would rather you not call me that.” There was a small, plaintive note in his request that shot its arrow directly through Garak's heart. “That is—not if you don't mean it.”

“ _ I always mean it _ , and of course I will  _ 'pencil you in',  _ my dear,” Garak assured him too fondly  _ by leagues _ to maintain his cool facade.

Julian grinned happily. “I do  _ say _ , Garak, it's been so  _ utterly  _ dull around here lately, I'm relieved to hear you say so.”

“ As I'm relieved you saw fit to pay me this lovely visit. However, I admit to some curiosity. What  _ really  _ compelled you to drop by this evening?”

“ Ah, I thought I'd already covered that.”

“ While I'm sure boredom is a motivating factor, surely you could have sought entertainment elsewhere. I've noticed I've sunk to a rather low standing on your list of options in that regard. Obviously I'm aware your friends are rather preoccupied in their own endeavors of late, but there are certainly other pursuits that could capture your attention,” Garak pointed out. “You claim you've missed me, and I don't deny it's a flattering sentiment, but if such a thing were truly the case, then what kept you from dropping by sooner? Why only now have you chosen to crawl out of the woodwork?”

Julian shrugged.  “ Let's just say...a little  _ 'birdie' _ implied he may have let certain things slip,” he intoned mysteriously.

Oh. Son-of-a- _ sleg. _

Garak inwardly groaned.  _ He really should have ponied up the extra cash for that damned Saurian brandy. That insipid vole! That nosy, good-for-nothing, double-crossing busybody! _

“ I see. And what else has this 'little birdie' let slip?”

Julian blinked. “What else would there be? He only said you'd asked about Rom and Leeta and he'd told you what happened on Risa. I was honestly rather touched you were so quick to jump to the defense of my honor.”

Garak narrowed his eyes. “You're certain he said nothing  _ else _ ?”

A smirk spread across the young man's face. “Is there some reason you're paranoid, Garak?”

“ Not in the least,” he replied airily. “May I point out that you're now the one skirting around a question?”

“ I was only momentarily sidetracked by  _ your  _ tangent,” Julian defended. “Unlike you, I have no reason to lie. As I said, I was flattered by your concern and it occurred to me that perhaps you hadn't altogether forgotten about me. So, I thought I'd take the opportunity to return the memo .”

“ Ah, well now that we've cleared up the matter—”

“ _ Garak _ ,” Julian sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “I'm tired of jumping through all these hoops with you. I know you're happy with Ziyal, and you more than deserve to be happy. I just want you to know that I— if there was something that I—I mean, I know I've acted childishly in the past and I know I owe you an apology.  That's pretty much why I'm here. What I came to say.”

“ I accept your apology.”

The Doctor smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. “Thank you.”

“ Again,” Garak patiently repeated, “Now that everything is all settled—”

“ The thing is—” Julian interjected once again, steam-rolling over Garak's attempt to close the matter,

“ I know you're too polite to demand any explanation, but I feel I owe you one anyway. It's just that, I have a bad habit of hoping for more than I...for setting my aim too high on targets I know are too far out of my range. I fully understand this doesn't excuse my behavior, but perhaps it might help to rationalize it.”

Garak's heart hammered in his chest. “Ah, my  _ dear _ , I don't think you've drawn the right conclusion.”

“ I often don't,” Julian replied with an off-handed shrug.

_ Ah, he's just fishing! _

“ Oh, spare me the act!” Garak exclaimed, folding his arms across his chest.  

The Doctor blinked at him, taken aback.

“ _ Please _ , gaping at me like some kind of uncomprehending fish doesn't suit you. You're far too intelligent to be this obtuse.”

A small grin crept onto the young man's face and he regarded Garak speculatively. “ _ Pretend I am _ —”

“ I wouldn't lower myself,” Garak interjected, “Nor would I do you such a grave disservice.”

“Alright, but I still think you owe me some clarification.”

Garak gaped at the young man, appalled by his sheer audacity. “I...owe  _ you? _ ” he exclaimed. “Now, that's a  _ bold  _ claim!”

“Let's look at your argument. You're saying my aim isn't too high—that I haven't missed the mark? There's no evidence to support your case. To date, Garak, nearly every last one of my darts had summarily missed the bull's eye. I don't mean to  sound like I've developed some kind of complex, but I'm running out of steam and  _ well... _ my overall morale  _ has _ seen better days.”

“Are you asking for _my_ sympathy? Oh, _my dear Doctor,_ I could give you any number of trite, meaningless platitudes, but I've simply run out of stock at the moment. Perhaps you could call back later. I'm sure I'll get more in, in due time. I usually do for you.”

_ A snide and callous reply from a scared man— _ and they both knew it.  

Julian's face pinched into a frown. “I came to you in good faith, Garak,” he defended. “Don't lash out at me because you can't face your own demons.”

“ That was perhaps, a  _ little _ unfair,” Garak conceded. “If it's any consolation, I'm really far too overly fond of you to provide an unbiased opinion on the matter. Perhaps you should seek out your Engineer friend. I'm sure he would be happy to give you some honest perspective.”

Julian huffed a small, bitter laugh. “Miles isn't exactly a  _ fount of wisdom _ . Sometimes I think it's a miracle he landed himself a wife.”

“ Well there you have it! He  _ must  _ be doing something right,” Garak pointed out. “But if it's a 'fount of wisdom' you're looking for, then who better to turn to than the Lieutenant? Surely, three centuries of experience counts for something.”

“ Or, I could cut directly to the source,” Julian suggested.

“ Ah! Am  _ I  _ the source of all wisdom? Indeed, a flattering supposition, if not sadly misguided,” Garak replied, deliberately misunderstanding. “I may be many thing, but I'm sorry to confess, I'm  _ no  _ oracle.”

“ You are many things,” Julian agreed, “And one of those is my  _ friend.  _ Some might even say my closest friend in some ways. Regardless of anything else, shouldn't I have the option of coming to you for counsel?”

“ You call me your friend with confidence—an unfortunately disputable point at times.”

“ You care about me,” Julian argued with determination.

“ Such conviction!” Garak exclaimed. “But...I suppose I won't deny it.”

The Doctor all but rolled his eyes.

“ Let's get one thing clear,  _ my friend, _ ” Garak continued, “I may forgive you, but I do  _ not  _ owe you. Anything I choose to give you from this point on, is not from some sense of debt, but out of the generosity of my own heart, and on my  _ own  _ terms.”

“ I'll accept that,” Julian grudgingly surrendered.

_ As if you have any choice in the matter, Doctor,  _ Garak grumbled to himself.

“ If you persist haranguing me for my honest insight, I'll supply you with this: it's not your aim that's defective, my dear, it's your approach,” he explained, leaning back against his work stool with a casual, professorial air.

“ It's not exactly the first time I've heard  _ that  _ criticism,” Julian dryly pointed out.

Garak sighed. “I see you've mistaken my meaning. Now if you'll permit me to continue, I am not referring to your... _ methods.  _ Although, those could perhaps want for some polishing,” he grinned. “But, I  _ digress _ . You're a...how should I put it? A  _ passionate  _ man, and sometimes I think your emotions cloud your judgment.”

Julian shrugged. “That's not an unfair assessment, I guess.”

“ You have a tendency to make rather rash decisions at times, often based on little more than a gut-feeling, and this often lands you into some  _ trying  _ situations,” Garak continued, “As I've noted on more than one occasion, you  _ are indeed  _ a very intelligent man, but you're not a particularly logical one—not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

The Doctor sullenly ducked his head, deferring to what he knew was the truth and Garak sighed knowing he was about to lay far too many of his cards on the table. And, why  _ not 'go for broke' as they say? _

Julian had come here to make amends—to mend the rift, and having achieved that goal, he should have gone on his merry way, satisfied he'd done what he'd set out to. But now, here they were, and why? Because the young man couldn't leave well enough alone. Their friendship was barely on solid ground and it was apparent the young man was either indifferent to that fact or dismally lacking in any sense of self-preservation.

_ One doesn't just skate out onto such thin ice with so little caution after all _ .

Garak's critique certainly had merit—Julian truly was a  _ far cry  _ from wise.

The problem was, he was wise enough for the both of them. Julian might be prepared to take such risks, but Garak stood much more to lose. Regardless, as he smiled tiredly at the young man, whom at the moment seemed to appear somewhat dejectedly avoiding him by picking some imaginary lint off his sleeve, Garak realized that compromising everything would perhaps be the kinder act.

(And maybe it would be foolish and very likely detrimental, but in a way, it wasn't entirely selfless.)

In confession—even couched in obscurity and misdirection, was deliverance.

Garak cleared his throat and Julian glanced back up a little warily. “ _ That being said,  _ in this  _ specific _ arena, you do seem to encounter a remarkable frequency of misfortune—to an extent which defies some understanding,” he admitted, encouraged by the hopeful look dawning in the young man's eyes. “Of course, you can come off as a bit of a twat and quite an abrasive know-it-all— _ from what I've heard, _ ” he quickly defended, “But...against my better judgment, I'm happy to call you my friend, and that must count for something. Besides, objectively speaking, you're the single most desirable man I've ever met in more ways than one and anyone who can't see that—anyone who wouldn't delight in your attention is not worth further thought.”

Garak watched with some degree of anxiety, carefully searching for any sign of rejection as a range of expressions—varying from surprise to suspicion crossed the young man's face as he processed this.

“ Wow, I say!” Julian finally exclaimed. “That's probably the nicest compliment anyone has ever given me—on the back of an insult, no less. I've got to hand it to you, clever tactic, Garak, you almost had me going there.”

“ Ah, but you fail to see the forest from the trees, my dear,” Garak sighed, shaking his head in theatrical despair. “I was assure you, I was speaking truthfully.”

“ Well, excuse me if I'm a bit  _ skeptical _ ,” Julian retorted sarcastically.

“ _ Pray,  _ in what manner have I neglected to swerve you from doubt?”

“ What comes to mind is the  _ ingenious _ use of the phrase:  _ 'objectively speaking', _ ” Julian reminded him with a bitter smile. “Or is pointing that out too  _ tediously obvious? _ I wouldn't want to  _ bore _ you, Garak. After all, I know how much you enjoy your subterfuge. Such a  _ disappointment  _ I must be for you. All those years of grooming gone to waste!”

Garak found himself a little taken aback by the fire in his scathing retort. “ _ Oh,  _ I would never call you 'boring', Doctor, but I might call you absurd for prioritizing such a triviality.”

“ _ Oh,  _ it might be 'trivial' to  _ you _ , Garak,” Julian chuckled darkly.

“ _ Honestly _ , what a dramatic reaction!  If I'd known you were going to object so vehemently, I would have chosen my words with more caution,” — _ or with less, as the case may be,  _ Garak considered, hope stirring in his chest. “Humor me, my dear, allow me to pose the alternative scenario— _ purely hypothetically, of course _ —but say I admit that the sentiment was perhaps, somewhat more... _ subjective  _ in nature. Would you find such a thought distasteful?”

Julian studied him speculatively for a moment before answering—as if he were choosing his response carefully. “I think, if the situation wasn't merely a hypothetical one, you'd find my reaction as one of relief.”

“ Ah, because  _ academically, _ one would submit that honesty  _ is _ the best policy and a scientist always approves of authenticity, isn't that right, Doctor?”

“ You illustrate a rather removed perspective,” Julian remarked. “And it isn't one that's even remotely correct. I would think you know me better than that.”

“ _ Oh, don't be ambiguous now, my dear! _ ” Garak exclaimed, planting his hands on the desk and leaning forward with a wide, open-mouthed grin. “I'm positively riveted! I  _ implore  _ you, show your poor, witless disciple a little mercy and  _ elucidate! _ ”

Nonplussed, Julian stared back at him humorlessly. “Perhaps I should've thought better of coming here this evening.”

“ _ Oh,  _ don't be such a puritan!” Garak scolded. “ _ What ever happened to you?  _ You used to be much more fun than this!”

“ I'm not in a laughing mood, Garak. This isn't a joke to me.”

A sobering remark, Garak sighed with some exasperation. “ _ Tit-for-tat, _ darling,” he pointed out. “Don't dish out what you can't take.”

Julian reflected fairly on this and a determined sort of resolve settled itself into the fix of his eyes and the set of his chin.

“ _ Fine _ . I'll be the bigger man since you're so utterly incapable of it and I'll be blunt.”

“ How  _ sublime! _ ” Garak clapped gleefully, leaning in. “ _ I assure you, I'm all ears. _ ”

“ Had you refrained from... _ refraining _ from bias, Garak, I would've been a good deal more than relieved. That is, if I could be truly convinced your sentiment was genuine.”

“ In that case,  _ I will retract the qualifier _ ,” Garak proclaimed almost breathlessly. “Consider it scratched from the record...and if you would do me the smallest of courtesies, my dear Doctor, please indicate where exactly I've gone amiss, because I cannot fathom why you would be under  _ any  _ impression that my regard is in  _ any  _ way less than wholly sincere.”

Julian dropped back his head for a moment, gazing skyward as if begging for the  _ strength. _

“ One would think that's  _ obvious _ , Garak,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I invite you to recall Leeta—”

“ _ Must I? _ ” Garak groaned.

“— and I would remind you of your own recent diversions—in case that's suddenly escaped you, and I would think the parallels would quite  _ plainly  _ draw themselves. The only difference is, I've since ceased such escapades.”

“ _ Ah well, _ Rom is a  _ fetching creature,  _ such a shame you couldn't measure up—”

Julian scowled. “You're only working on half the story, Garak. Leeta never approached me to perform the Rites. I suggested it, and not merely to salvage my wounded pride, as I'm sure you would imply. I had no idea she was interested in Rom. That was news to me.”

“ Forgive me if I came to the wrong assumption. I meant no offense.”

“ Oh, you meant a  _ little, _ ” Julian bit out crossly. “The thing is Garak, you know me better than almost anyone. And yes,  _ granted,  _ my sights reach rather aerial altitudes at times, but I never reach for what's spoken for. It's a  _ firm  _ line, and one in which, in all good conscience, I could not and will  _ never  _ cross. Call it a fault of my own moral code, if you must, but that's how it is.

Garak bristled with indignation. “I do hope this isn't some subtle way of casting aspersions on my character, Doctor. You'd be mistaken to assume I bear any leniency for infidelity.”

“ Considering the circumstances, you can't fault me for jumping to less than favorable conclusions.”

Garak sighed. “Perhaps you were right, my dear. Perhaps some clarity is needed after all. In fact, it may even be long past overdue,” he conceded. “No one can deny the presence of certain, present situations that exist, and they are,  _ sadly, _ not without some measure of complication. However, whatever line you've imagined, darling, simply is only that: a figment of your imagination.”

Julian stared at him skeptically. “I want to believe that.”

“ It's regrettable you didn't know sooner.”

Julian's frown was a remorseful one. “I suppose I should accept my share of responsibility for the mess you're in.”

“ For the mess  _ we  _ are in,” Garak suggested with just a touch of both pettiness and hope.

“ Is there anything that can be done?”

“ The young lady has not explicitly revealed her intentions, thus, the only course of action is to take none at all,” Garak explained. “Consider if you were in her shoes. She's at a delicate and uniquely impressionable age and I imagine this may very well be her first blush of love. Were I to rebuff such overtures before she could gather the courage to confess anything, I believe it might leave a rather lasting scar. It would be reprehensible of me to render her at such a disadvantage so early in life—one which very well might damage her future prospects. So you understand if at present, I hesitate to take any... _ hasty _ actions on that front.”

Julian blew out a defeated sigh. “What a colossal cock-up I've made of everything. I truly am sorry, Garak. I know you care quite a lot for the girl.”

“ _ Alas, poor Atlas,  _ what a heavy burden it is you bear,” Garak teased softly. “But please, my dear. Know that I don't lay any real blame on you. I am the master of my own destiny, and my mistakes were my own to make. That isn't to say, however, that all hope is lost.”

Julian peered back at him with a small, shy smile. “If I...suggest something, would you promise to give me only a 'yes or no' answer?”

Garak darted a glance down at the young man's hands, anxiously clutching the cloth of his uniform at his sides and felt a stir of anticipation. “I promise I'll consider whatever you suggest,” he replied.

The young man chuckled. “I suppose that will have to do. To preface...this is more of a proposal than a question,” he explained, sucking in a breath in preparation.

Garak didn't need to suck in a breath, he'd already been holding his for several seconds.

“Garak, is there any sort of way we can... _start over?_ Of course, I don't mean _all over,_ like from the beginning or anything, that would be absurd,” he laughed nervously. “But...I don't know, from somewhere earlier this year? Before everything sort of went all _topsy-turvy_ on us?”

No one this man's age had any right to be so endearingly guileless. At half his years, Garak had already taught himself how to shroud his speech and cover his tracks. Only a mere decade younger, he'd learned how to manipulate any situation to his advantage, bend nearly anyone to his will. By his third decade, Garak could already boast completion of over three dozen successful operations and a headcount roughly equivalent to that. At thirty-two, he could take anyone down by his word alone. At thirty-two, Garak was the heir apparent to the gilded throne behind the curtain, and upon coronation he would rule an entire empire—not by birthright,  _ no,  _ that claim had been denied him. He'd had to earn his way up, and his cold-blooded elevation had been marked every step of the way in blood. At thirty-two, he'd been convinced he was invincible and nothing could knock him from the summit, and he knew with no semblance of a doubt that he had no heart to break.

At thirty-two, in spite of an episodic serial of disappointments and heart-ache, in spite of the strange, coiling secret he kept locked deep inside, Julian Bashir still wore his heart on his sleeve and it was something Garak knew would be best to break him of...but selfishly,  _ he wouldn't. _

“ If that's what you desire,” he replied simply.

Julian's brilliant grin stole the breath right out of him. “ _ Oh,  _ I assure you it is.”

Garak knew if he didn't get this infuriating, irresistible, tempting man out of his sight this instant, he'd be unable to stop himself from reaching straight over the counter and yanking the good Doctor down by the neck of his uniform, and there would be very little then to keep him from claiming that alluring, brilliant mouth of his. “I am delighted we could come to some unanimity, Julian, and I will be looking forward to seeing you more often,” he declared. “Now please. Get out of my shop.”

Julian's happy smile vanished into bewilderment, caught off guard by the sudden terseness in his tone as Garak circled around the desk to usher him toward the exit.

“ You're joking—”

“ I'm afraid not, my dear. I'm closed. And when the shop is closed I must close up shop,” Garak explained, smiling with as much patience as he could muster. Still, Julian remained fixed in his spot; an unmovable object.

“ I don't mean to shove you out so hastily, but I've really lost track of time and if you won't kindly remove yourself from the premises, I will have to escort you.”

Julian bawked a little as Garak placed his hand on the small of his back and gave him a slight shove in the direction of the door.  _ Oh, it was an error to touch him— _ in this mere, fleeting moment of contact, the warmth of his skin through the thin layer of his uniform shot through Garak like a current, straining both his smile and regions further south.

“ _ Garak— _ ”

“ I'll see you for lunch tomorrow and we'll discuss Antony and Cleopatra. I've a criticism or two I'm sure you'll find a sufficient palliative for your 'boredom'—”

“ _ Garak! What has gotten into you? _ ”  Julian demanded, grabbing purchase of the edges of two display tables to brace himself in place and effectively stall Garak's herding efforts.

Garak released a shaky breath and met the Doctor's eyes, finding himself in far too dangerous a proximity. He could practically breathe in the scent of the other man— _ your mate,  _ his brain provided, and it was with an almost primitive urgency his body had stirred fully awake; every cell sparking like the naked end of live wire, keenly aware of every jut, curve and sinew of Julian's slender form mere inches away. He could feel the heat of his skin, warmer than his own by several degrees permeating the space between them.

There was no feasible way to effectively shield his k'hshlim from the raw, unbridled desire he knew would be gleaming in his eyes, and Julian couldn't have missed it, uttering his name in a heavy, tremulous breath that managed to strike that connective chord between heart-muscle and groin. The resulting tremor quivered from sternum to surface and for a second, Garak wasn't sure he had the impulse control to hold himself back this time.  

Of course, all of this happened in less than a second or two, so when he did regain his sense of decorum to take a prudent step-backward, it occurred to him that the Doctor had perhaps mistaken his symptoms for something else, and perhaps when the young man had spoken his name, he'd mistook his tone for something mirroring the lust burning inside of him, when, in reality, it was likely only due to some quite reasonable fear.

“ _ What the hell is the sudden rush? _ ”  Julian challenged, not a little irate. “Are you expecting other company? Let me guess,  _ I'm  _ the other woman.”

Garak sighed and gave him a shaky and sincerely fond smile; defenses still down in the immediate aftermath of overcoming such powerful arousal. “You are _far_ too lovely to be the 'other' anything.”

Julian raised an eyebrow and shook his head, scoffing softly. “ _Christ,_ Garak. You're going to give me emotional whiplash. I can't keep up with you. One minute you're running hot—another you're cold, one minute you're disparaging me and the next you're laying it on— _frankly,_ pretty thick,” he pointed out. “Honestly, it's hard to tell sometimes whether you loathe me or love—”  

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, glancing across at him with wide, slightly panicked eyes. “I didn't mean ' _ love'— _ not in the way it sounded anyway—” he defended, clumsily back-pedaling.

Garak, inflamed  and soaring far too high, couldn't quite hold back his response lingering precariously as it was on the tip of his tongue. “I certainly don't loathe you. In fact, it's become something of a rather obvious fact that I hold you in the  _ highest esteem,  _ and honestly  _ k'hshlimouv,  _ if I doted on you any more than I already do, we'd be certain to become the talk of the station.”

“ Alright, I'll give that such a thing may have been likely seven or eight months ago...but I don't think we're in jeopardy of that now...and, in any case,” Julian smirked, “To quote one of my favorite lines from a little old book I consider to be one of my guiltiest pleasures,  _ 'frankly my dear, I don't give a damn'. _ ”

_ Oh, who gave this man permission to tease him this way? _

Garak felt himself grinning madly. “You are a  _ minx _ .”

“ Pot, meet kettle _ , _ ” Julian parried.

“ What  _ am  _ I going to do with you?”

“ _ Oh,  _ I'm sure you'll think up something,” the young man replied coyly, taking a step toward him to reclose the gap. “If not, I'd be happy to provide one or two suggestions.”

Garak groaned, aching with desire. “I can tell you're going to be a handful.”

Julian took a slow, measured breath. “What is this, Garak? What are we?”

“ _ Very, very dear friends, _ ”  he replied gently, not doubting his dear Doctor would pick up on the reference.

“ Said Jarin to Gilora.”

Garak grinned. “ _ He can be taught. _ ”

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

It was a delicious thing to have a secret. It was even more exciting to share one.   
  
This game that was _not_ a game had hatched from its chrysalis into the most exquisite of dances and although Garak expected Julian was likely only half-conscious of the full depth and breadth of what was budding between them— _this love that dare not speak its name—_ he knew, if tended to with patience, if nurtured with care could rouse and mature into something worth everything.  
  
“ _He woke her then, and trembling and obedient, she ate that burning heart out of his hand.”_  
  
How often on any particular day, would he catch a glimpse of the young man strolling through the promenade and forget to breathe? How often did their eyes catch and linger—with such heat simmering just below the surface? Time became a quantity spanning outside any form of measure; inconsequential...except when it was too short a thing and he'd felt as if he'd been robbed.   
  
_Ah,_ but any stolen glance shared was only more glorious for the truth which coiled within it.  
  
“ _I saw him then depart from me. Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her?”_ Julian recited. _“Find nourishment in the very sight of her?”_  
  
Garak gazed in wonder across at his companion whom sat so near on just the other side of the table—a distance easily infringed upon were he to reach across... _oh,_ how he longed to grab the young man's hand where it rested upon the padd he read from; to wrap it in his own and thread together their fingers...he smiled softly but Julian's eyes were fixed on his text.    
  
“— _I think so,_ ” Garak deftly replied, the words flowing so fluidly; so instinctively, he barely needed the aid of his own manuscript. “— _But, would she see through the bars of his plight and ache for him?_ ”  
  
“Oh! Well done, Garak!” Julian praised, with equal parts surprise and elation. “I wasn't sure you were still paying attention.”   
  
_How could I not?_ Garak had wondered.   
  
Over the weeks, they'd slipped into something of routine without design, meeting for lunch every other day or so. Their conversations had taken a turn toward the literary and often they'd recite passages to each other—ones they found of particular poignancy—a veiled way to verbalize this feverish frisson; to communicate this newly, mutually understood fledgling affection.   
  
Courting each other in prose was an incredible experience for Garak, whom had never truly courted anyone in his near five cycles around the sun and a brilliant method both paying homage to their shared history and befitting of their future together.   
  
If only Garak could find the right phrases, the right string of words that could articulately channel how he really felt! It was a challenge and an addiction sifting through the countless works they devoured during those days—circumventing the saccharine, the maudlin and the the glaringly obvious to procure the subtle, the elegant and the exact.    
  
But save for that one verse he kept deeply tucked away—the one of Preloc's that said everything and far too much, what could he say?   
  
One evening, Garak joined his companion for supper to discuss Julian's most recent recommendations, neither of which Garak hadn't particularly cared for and the latter of which he'd utterly despised.   
  
And, while tucked away in this discreet corner booth, immersed in this heated debate over the merits of the Bronte sisters, Garak, adamantly convinced neither of whom could hold a candle to either Maron Bry or Cylon Pareg with respect to either form or eloquence, found his argument momentarily faltering by the underhanded tactics of his opponent whom had slyly decided to hook an ankle around his own beneath the table.   
  
“It's truly a shame there's no Standard translation of _'Eternal Stranger',_ ” Garak rallied, gathering back his wits, determined to ignore that tingling point of contact where the Doctor's knee pressed against the inside of his. “I'm convinced you'd come around to my perspective. Still, I will say this, you can't deny only one of your Brontes made it out of the womb with the lion's share of talent. This vile, disgraceful excuse for a novel you've inflicted upon me is without a single redeeming feature. Your protagonists are contemptible, abusive, selfish creatures—little more than villains, and the nature of their love is no more than the very essence of narcissism itself; they are but a mirror of each other's own sickness.” ”  
  
“Indeed, your point is not entirely an invalid one. Many would agree with you, _'Wuthering Heights'_ has long been hotly contested in many circles,” Julian conceded, “But I think you're missing the bigger picture.”  
  
“Please, my dear, I beg you to enlighten me,” Garak replied skeptically.   
  
“They were undoubtedly two very disturbed individuals and I can neither defend nor justify their actions. Their love was one fraught with torment—which thrived on turmoil, but I would argue it was genuine regardless. One particular line registers profoundly with me, and you won't be able to deny it proves my point: _'If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.'_ ” Julian quoted, shredding through Garak like fingers tipped with razor claws.    
  
He was not equipped for this!   
  
“There's the selflessness, wrapped in all the dark melancholy and subliminal passion of Preloc. I thought, of all people, Garak, surely such a relevant comparison wouldn't go undetected by you.”     
  
 _'—The quarrel had merely effected a closer intimacy—had broken the outworks of youthful timidity and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship and confess themselves lovers,'_ Garak recalled distractedly before finding himself arrested mid-thought by the peculiar, speculative look Julian was suddenly regarding him with. He froze, as if turned to marble as the young man reached across the table without any warning.   
  
Only the tips of his fingers made contact, brushing faintly over the knuckles of Garak's closed fist, resting as it was at the edge of his place setting. It was barely enough to process as touch, let alone as a caress and he was already pulling back away again as Garak, stunned by the boldness of the gesture, found his fingers reflexively uncurling as if to make chase after him.   
  
He resisted the unconscious urge and stared agape at his companion, all prior conversation disappearing from his mind.   
  
It was an experiment, clearly, but what was it searching for?   
  
But then Julian was talking again as if nothing had transpired and Garak grinned to himself. Where was that naive young man he'd tried to resist falling for in vain? Vanished—no, _evolved,_ and he couldn't help but approve.  
  
Art and artifice had a synergistic beauty Garak had always found compelling, and in Julian it was nothing short of stunning.   
  
From this point on, something shifted between them—which in someways, had cleared a path.   
  
And in those brief and borrowed moments, in the privacy of a hallway or behind a beam where the angle of security detail couldn't quite reach, Julian's hand would find his own. Their palms would press and their fingers would intertwine and he would feel the pulse of his k'hshlim's heartbeat match the thrumming of his own.   
  
“ _The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold,_ ” Garak whispered, his nose grazing the edge of Julian's hairline, his mouth pressed against the shell of his ear. “The curves of your lips rewrite history.”  
  
“ _Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take,_ ” Julian replied, breathless and radiant, “ _Thus, from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged._ ”  
  
His mouth hovered over Garak's—mere millimeters away, and Garak could nearly taste him—was _nearly_ lost, and then Julian pulled away, with the most charming and maddening of smiles.   
  
If crossing references with the young man was a duel of wits, he could only imagine what kind of duel might come of crossing tongues. But, he would behave. He wouldn't push. He would wait and he would live in perpetual agony until his love saw fit to return his own.   
  
                                                                      <~>  
  
“What's this?” Julian asked, genuine delight curling his lips into a grin.   
  
“A small token of my affection,” Garak replied, feeling rather bold in spite of the fact that they were seated across from each other in the middle of the replimat. “Happy Birthday.”  
  
“I'm sensing a common theme.”  
  
“I was under the impression you were a fan of books.”  
  
Julian quirked a grin. “I've not the faintest idea as to what could have given you such a notion.”  
  
“One will never know,” Garak replied with a wry lift of an eye-ridge.   
  
“Garak,” Julian breathed in amazement, “It's wonderful. You're wonderful. Where on Earth did you find a genuine, paperback manuscript of _'Meditations'_?”  
  
“Not on _Earth,_ ” Garak replied puckishly.  
  
Julian rolled his eyes. “I was being hyperbolic”  
  
“It's from my own collection. It's very old. First production,” Garak explained. “I thought it was time it found a new home, and I couldn't think of a better one than with you.”  
  
Julian regarded him with something akin to the utter adoration Garak felt for the young man.   
  
“That's a generous compliment.”  
  
“It's not generous at all, darling _,_ it's honest,” Garak argued, watching a little covetously as the young man ran an appreciative hand down the front of the book.   
  
“The spine is soft,” he noted.   
  
“It's Urall hide,” Garak informed him, sitting back in his chair with a small tug of anxiety as Julian opened the book. His eyes immediately found the note scrawled on the inside of the cover and widened in recognition.   
  
“This is your handwriting.”  
  
“I'm surprised you could tell.”  
  
“It's in Kardasi, but the tails still have your signature fleck,” Julian pointed out. “What does it say?”  
  
“Perhaps I should leave that for you to discover on your own.”  
  
“I could always scan it for the translation.”

  
“You could try,” Garak smirked. “But my penmanship has never been particularly legible for such devices.”  
  
“Alright then. I suppose I'd rather hear you read it anyway.”  
  
Garak sighed, giving in to his beloved's wishes, unable to deny him anything.  
  
“I'm far too indulgent with you.”  
  
“I think you're the perfect amount of indulgent.”  
  
“You're a menace, my dear,” Garak chuckled. “But as they say, _'spare the rod, spoil the child'._ It reads: _'Yan-pret K'hshlimouv-çăk, edek entrancep pă_ _çriyta, yan-ut insadran pretouv encep'._ “  
  
Julian gave him a parsing, nonplussed stare. “Translation in Standard maybe?”   
  
“Maybe later,” Garak replied dismissively.   
  
“You know impulse-control is not my forte.”  
  
“Nor patience apparently.”  
  
“I have plenty of patients. Too many, if you ask me.”

Garak groaned. “Homonyms make for cheap jokes. Try to elevate yourself to a higher standard.”  
  
Julian chuckled. “You're the worst snob sometimes, Garak.”  
  
“What is it they say? _Ah, yes._ 'Takes one to know one'.”  
  
Julian redirected his attention back to the text. “Mind if I try to work it out myself?” he asked with a mischievous grin.   
  
“Be my guest,” Garak shrugged, confident he'd fail abysmally.  
  
“I don't claim to be any expert, but I have been studying a little.”  
  
“Will the surprises never cease?” Garak grinned, delighted, “And more to the point, should I be flattered you've taken up such a pursuit?”  
  
Julian smiled enigmatically. “ _Perhaps,_ ” he replied. “Now I don't want to raise your expectations too high, I'm only a novice. I apologize in advance if I manage to butcher it a little.”  
  
“I await your attempt with baited breath.”  
  
Julian drew in a breath. “ _'For the love of my beloved, I conquer or die, for to cloak my heart is defeat,'_ ” he translated perfectly. Garak stared across at his companion in astonishment. Even his accent was flawless! “ _Today marks the occasion of your day of birth, a celebration I am honored to be a part of. You are every bit as beautiful as you are brilliant, Julian. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to say this so soon, but you'll forgive this old Cardassian his eccentricities. K'hshlimouv, you are my own and my one, as I am yours. E.G.'_ ”   
  
“That was impressive,” Garak remarked.   
  
Julian was silent for a long time.  
  
“I was overly sentimental.”  
  
“No,” the young man denied. “That was...more than I'd expected.”  
  
“I assure you I meant nothing improper.”  
  
“ _'Improper'?_ ” Julian's face split into a wide, bewildered grin. “How could anyone misconstrue that as improper? Clearly our Victorian literature sessions have addled your mind—”   
  
“It is merely an informality, a normal intimacy shared between dear friends and not at all uncommon among Cardassians.”  
  
“ _Garak,_ ” Julian chuckled, “I don't believe you for a second. That's an atrociously pathetic lie and you know it.”   
  
“Ah, but my dear, _'first you must take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck from mine',_ ” Garak chastised. “I recall you saying something about being a novice in Kardasi, and here I find you fluent.”  
  
“A _white lie_ at best.”  
  
“I don't see why we must persist talking about this.”  
  
“Because, Garak, why did you never tell me?”  
  
Garak paused, furrowing a frown. “What was I supposed to tell you that I haven't already said in nearly every form accessible to me?”  
  
Julian sucked in a shaky breath, grinning like a fool. “I think I could kiss you.”  
  
Garak's browridges shot up. “ _Here?_ ”  
  
“Here. In front of everyone,” Julian declared, impassioned. “I couldn't give a lick for what anyone else thinks.”  
  
“I would advise against it,” Garak replied evenly, despite the sudden roar in his ears of his soaring blood-pressure.  
  
“For such a romantic, you're depressingly practical.”  
  
Garak could barely process the criticism, still lost in the reverie of _finally_ kissing the man.  
  
“I would tell you to snap out of it, but I'm celebrating the fact that for once I was able to catch you off guard.”   
  
“You are cruel, merciless little tease, Doctor.”   
  
Julian exhaled a sigh. “An _old_ tease, at that. _Thirty-three._ I swear my last Birthday was only a day ago. Before I know it I'll be old and decrepit, shouting at children to get off my lawn.”  
  
“Is that a traditional behavior of your people when they reach a venerable age?”   
  
Julian chuckled. “Maybe some.”  
  
“Well, it rather seems like a hassle, but if you're intent on living up to your peculiar expectations for yourself, I suppose I could be convinced to lay down some sod and sprinkle some grass seeds outside your quarters.”  
  
“A...generous offer, Garak, but I think a few people might object.”  
  
Not one to give up too easily, Garak quickly fleshed out an alternative. “Perhaps I could convince the Constable to replicate the effect.”   
  
Julian dropped back in his chair laughing outright. “I think Odo would _definitely_ object!”  
  
“I imagine he would perceive such a thing as a terrible indignity,” Garak considered.   
  
“I'll tell you what's a terrible indignity. The fact that I'll be forced to make a polite appearance at this Birthday party later this evening. You would think after complaining so vocally about it for the past few years Jadzia would get the message. I mean, it's very thoughtful but I really don't like dwelling on the thing.”  
  
“Perhaps I could find some way to distract you from such unpleasant thoughts,” Garak proposed. “Or, perhaps I could even...concoct a scheme to help you duck out early. We could, if you're so inclined, resume the celebration in a more congenial, _private_ setting.”  
  
Julian's eyes lit up for a heartening second before his expression wilted into annoyance. “ _Damn_ _._ I nearly forgot. I signed up over a month ago to attend a burn conference on Meezan four. I'll have to be up bright and early tomorrow to catch my shuttle.”  
  
Garak didn't bother to mask his disappointment. “Ah, that does throw the proverbial wrench in one's plans. Perhaps we could reschedule for after you return,” he offered, somewhat encouraged to note the young man looked as little placated by this as he felt.   
  
“That would be the most responsible option,” Julian agreed. “Although, unfortunately, the Vedek booked a consultation right after, so I'll only be on the station for less than hour or two before I have to hop down to Bajor for a few days. Maybe we could grab a quick drink?”  
  
Garak sighed. “ _'Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your_ _desire?'_ ” He quoted with a small, self-deprecating smile.   
  
“Clever use of the 57th sonnet,” Julian dryly retorted. “Although it's rather petty of you. I assure you, Garak, I'm no more pleased about this than you are. Look. We don't have to call this evening a total loss—mind, we don't allow our... _festivities_ tarry _too_ long...”  
  
Garak deliberated on this, turning over his options. Julian could be quite persuasive when he put his mind to it, and in his case, it honestly didn't take much to be persuaded by the young man.    
  
Still, being that there was very little doubt in Garak's mind as to where the night might likely lead, as much as he yearned to forgo all semblance of practicality, he knew he best ought resist the temptation. After all, a mere, quick tumble was something he could have easily enjoyed long before now—the Doctor would not have gone to his bed unwillingly, but such a thing at this point, while certain to abate the most desperate of edges and sate the immediacy of the impulse, would fail to do justice, and at such a critical juncture, Garak's endgame was far too precious to compromise.     
  
“There is something to be said for the expression, 'all good things come to those who wait',” Garak put forth with just enough reluctance to be assuaging.   
  
“Ah, so now we're condescending to extol the virtues of patience,” Julian dryly remarked. “Please, notify me when you've decided to cease running me in circles.”  
  
Garak granted him a warm, appeasing smile. “I promise, I will show you such patience will be well worth your effort. In due time.”  
  
Julian returned to him a narrowing look. “I'm going to hold you to it,” he warned, his lips curling into a teasing grin, “Among other things.”                    
  
“— _Dax to Bashir—”_  
  
The Doctor sighed, pressing his comm badge. “What's the emergency?” he asked a bit tersely.     
  
“ _Sisko wants you in Medical to determine a potential quarantine situation. A freighter crew just arrived covered in lesions.”_  
  
“Well. That certainly puts one off one's lunch,” Garak remarked with a wry grin. (Nothing better to kill a mood than that.)   
  
“Alright. I'll be over in just a second,” Julian confirmed. “Well, I guess duty-calls,” he sighed, picking up his his tray and glancing down at his half-eaten meal a little ruefully before returning to Garak a small, apologetic frown. “Sorry to cut our lunch short...but, I will see you in a couple weeks, won't I? You won't have forgotten about me, will you?”  
  
 _Believe me I've tried._ “I doubt such a thing is possible, my dear,” Garak reassured.  
  
                                                                    <~>  
  
At oh-five-hundred, the Doctor stumbled groggily into the airlock with his go-bag over one shoulder, barely suppressing a yawn and looking still endearingly sleep-rumpled in spite of his fresh uniform. He blinked in surprise to find Garak waiting for him, bearing both a warm smile and a small, insulated lunch bag.   
  
“Not quite a morning person are we?” Garak teased.  
  
Julian grinned. “Ah, this is nothing. Relatively speaking, I'm chipper and raring to go! You'd agree had you seen me only half-an-hour ago.”  
  
“In that case, perhaps a sight I'm only a little sorry to have missed,” Garak grinned back.   
  
“Very well likely, I've heard it told I'm something of a wretch to behold and... maybe a trifle clingy.”  
  
“The latter of which doesn't sound like a terribly disagreeable way to pass a morning.”  
  
Julian smirked. “At least I didn't have too beastly a hang-over from last night.”  
  
“And how were the festivities?”  
  
“Less enjoyable than they _could_ have been,” Julian replied a little sourly before changing direction. “Anyway, I'm happy you came to send me off.”  
  
“Of course,” Garak replied. “And, I took the liberty to prepare you something small to nibble on, as well as a little something to spare you some boredom along the journey.”  
  
Julian smiled, accepting the small care package. “That was...very thoughtful, Garak, you certainly didn't have to go to the trouble,” he demurred, beginning to unzip the bag to peak inside before his attempts were halted by Garak's hand covering his own.   
  
“Now, now!” Garak admonished. “Best not spoil the surprise.”  
  
“Alright, I'll wait,” Julian relented, turning his hand up to squeeze Garak's. “I think I'll miss you something miserably.”  
  
“And I'll be counting the seconds until your return, k'hslimouv,” he replied, returning a gentle, meaningful squeeze of his own.   
  
Garak strolled leisurely back from the shuttle bay to the replimat for breakfast, knowing the young man had likely plunged into the insulated bag the second the shuttle-pod's doors had closed behind him.  
  
Bry's _Paean to Kunderah_ had been an inspired addition as he had no doubt Julian would come to agree as he noshed on his chocolate dipped figs and yogurt.   
  
                                                                    <~>   
  
During the following two weeks, in the Doctor's absence, Garak returned to sharing those gaps in his day in Ziyal's company. The young woman wasn't half as distant as he'd expected her to be after nearly a month of neglect, but then again, she'd been away herself on Bajor attending classes—something that, in his distraction had gone remarkably unnoticed.   
  
Still, her presence and conversation were only the smallest consolation, and far too often his mind would wander off to Julian...what he was doing, what he was thinking about...  
  
In that slim window of time in which he'd returned to the station before heading off again to see the Vedek, he hadn't called on his lonely friend as Garak had hoped. Even a glimpse of him would have been treasured, even a kind word in passing would have been nourishment enough to sustain him.   
  
But then, finally the Doctor had returned and he'd been cordial and friendly as ever, hadn't he? Julian Bashir was absolutely the same in all ways—but _not._   
  
They returned to their lunches as before, and the Doctor had carried on arguing politics and philosophy and any other trivial matter, but he seemed to avoid any topic of literature—particularly any of Garak's recommendations; a funny thing, since he now knew the man was fluent in Kardasi, why shouldn't he be eager to show off this talent? But then, hadn't he seemed somehow distracted half the time? Impatient even—as if he were always looking for some polite opportunity to excuse himself, and, whenever such a thing fell into his lap he seized upon it almost _too_ eagerly—as if he couldn't wait to escape.   
  
And how peculiar was it how he'd tacitly avoided any mention of that morning he'd left? Not a word of his thoughts on Maron Bry's poetry... it prompted Garak to wonder if perhaps, while he was away he'd reconsidered the direction of their relationship, and out of...what? Pity? Fear? Had decided not to inform Garak of such a decision. But then, perhaps the nebulous and indirect nature of such a thing did not require a direct rejection.   
  
_Oh,_ how he agonized over the warmth in Julian's smiles that never was matched in his eyes...the indifference there was maddening! _If only the man would simply find the compassion to put him out of his misery!_  
  
He wanted to demand an explanation— _anything_ would serve better than _nothing._ Every suggestive comment and innuendo was cast off as a joke... _'Oh, good old, Garak! Always a flirt! Always good for a laugh!'_ Every subtle gesture of intimacy in those rare moments he thought he could get away with it were summarily rebuffed, but not as if the young man were intentionally spurning his advances, _no,_ the whole thing would be treated as if there had simply never been a precedent for it; as if Julian couldn't understand why he would be subject to such over-familiarity—as if he were actually puzzled by how he ought to react and respond!  
  
And then, out of sheer desperation, Garak had even resorted to conspicuous displays of both fondness and affection for Ziyal in front of the Doctor, but this achieved the same result: the same vapid, oblivious smiles, the same pleasantly neutral look of neither approval nor disapproval. It was either the most convincing act of willful ignorance Garak had ever seen or the poor man had suffered some serious, inexplicable neurological damage.   
  
And really, he doubted it. It was like someone had taken a vacuum to the man and sucked out anything too volatile; too real. Julian made a mean feat of evading reference to anything of too much personal consequence and he never allowed himself to be cornered into confirmation. The Doctor had always been ambiguous about his past, but not with regard to his relationships and actions aboard the station over these past few years. What's more, he was far too careful to avoid those situations where he might be confronted about the fact.   
  
Garak also noticed he was careful to avoid being alone with anyone for too long. Certainly with Garak.   
  
_Especially with Garak._  
  
Ultimately, he would have been offended if he hadn't been so suspicious. _If only he could manage to steal the tiniest sample of the Doctor's blood—it would just be the smallest of pricks, nothing he would notice..._  
  
In the end, he was only marginally surprised when the Jem'Hadar guard had dragged Julian Bashir out of isolation and shoved him into the internment centre, and this was only due to the fact that he was wearing a particularly outdated uniform he knew Starfleet had replaced ages ago. The young man looked utterly haggard, but to Garak, in that moment, he could have eaten up the sight of him.   
  
In lock up, in front of Worf and Martok, the Doctor had dragged a sharpened piece of metal over the tip of his finger, but Garak hadn't needed any proof to know he was the real deal.  
  
“I didn't figure it out immediately, believe it or not. Your decoy was very convincing,” Garak had admitted to him privately, as they crouched together in the corner of the barracks. “However, there were certain...things that hadn't escaped my notice. I'd come to the assumption you'd been abducted at some point during your stay on Meezan Four, but sadly, I could never gather the necessary evidence.”  
  
Julian's mouth curled into an angry frown. “So you're telling me there's a Dominion spy at this very moment wearing my face...performing my duties, and no one else is any the wiser?”  
  
“It would appear so,” Garak confirmed grimly. “Speaking of appearances, I take it your captor's provided you with what you're wearing?”  
  
The young man sighed. “Well, I was asleep at the time and I don't exactly sleep in my uniform.”  
  
“I wouldn't know.”  
  
“I know you wouldn't,” Julian retorted with a soft bite of bitterness that Garak found to be of some relief to hear.   
  
They slept that night on cots beside each other, and in the dark cell, under the din of snores, Garak found the young man's fingers threading through this own.   
  
“I've thought about you,” Julian confided in a quiet whisper.   
  
“And I of you,” Garak admitted. _And o_ _f almost nothing else._  
  
“I didn't know if everyone thought I was dead. I kept my ear out, but then I'd heard nothing for so long, no sign of anyone looking for me that I knew it was likely some changeling had crept aboard to take my place,” Julian swallowed thickly. “I was worried, Garak. About you. In the beginning at first, because I didn't think you would take the prospect of my death well, and then, because...if you didn't know it wasn't me...”  
  
The unasked question lingered between them apprehensively.   
  
“I told you there were things that hadn't escaped my notice,” Garak confirmed. “The absence of which was felt keenly, I assure you.”  
  
“Good,” Julian bit out. “It's been torture to imagine...”  
  
 _Ah_ , how he wished he could make out his expression!    
  
“And what was it you feared?” Garak prompted carefully.   
  
“That you wouldn't know for sure, and that my double would pick up on the fact and...I don't know. Try to find some way to convince you.”  
  
Garak didn't admit to the young man that the changeling had ample opportunity to try. For one, the fact that he _hadn't_ immediately known for sure still grated on his pride, but then, more importantly, because what Julian didn't know couldn't hurt him.   
  
“The thought of that monster being so close to you...” Julian continued. “It makes my skin crawl.”  
  
“It's not a thought I particularly relish myself.”  
  
“If that _thing_ had so much as laid a hand on you in any way _..._ ”   
  
The sentiment had been followed by something crossed between a stifled sob and a soft growl; a wrenching, possessive thing that stirred both heart and loins.  
  
“— _I would never have forgiven myself._ ” —' _or you',_ Garak heard without it needing to be said.   
  
They were both silent for a beat, as if pondering their own mutually exclusive versions of such a nightmare.    
  
“Or, _hell, Garak,_ if you had—”  
  
“Trust me when I tell you such a thing would have been unfathomable to me,” Garak shot back tersely, cutting him off mid-sentence.   
  
“ _I know. I know, I'm sorry,_ ” Julian whispered wretchedly. “That was unfair. I know...”   
  
Garak reached forward blindly in the dark, drawing his free hand up the side of the cot until he found the young man's matted curls and combed his fingers through them soothingly. Julian leaned into his caress with a small, sort of touch-starved desperation, trapping his hand between his face and the mattress and Garak could feel a tell-tale sign of dampness.  
  
 _Oh, my poor boy._ How he wished he could drag him over and curl around him protectively.  
  
“Julian... _dearest,_ if we ever escape this horrible place...” he vowed, having no need to fill the rest in using words where a tight squeeze of his hand would more than suffice.  
  
                                                                  <~>  
  
“I should have never come here,” Garak bitterly huffed as they strolled back from the mess hall into the centre. “I should have let that monster die forgotten and alone.”  
  
“Frankly, I'm glad you came,” Julian admitted. “Misery loves company.”  
  
“All my life I've done nothing but try to please that man. I let him mold me, let him turn me into a mirror image of himself, and how did he repay me? With exile. But I forgave him, and here, in the end, I thought maybe, _just maybe_ he could forgive me.”   
  
“From what I've seen of him over the last month, he doesn't come across as the forgiving type,” Julian pointed out.  
  
“I've been a fool,” Garak bit out angrily. “Let this be a lesson to you, Doctor, perhaps the most valuable one I can ever teach you. Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.”  
  
Julian's responding expression implied he'd taken this personally. “If that's true, it's a lesson I'd rather not learn,” he replied, staring back at Garak with a look of challenge. _'You're lying and I know you're lying'._  
  
Just then, Martok approached and his interruption diffused the tension. “I thought you might want to know, if you wish to speak to Tain, do it now, before it's too late.”  
  
                                                                <~>  
  
The corner of their cell had become something of a designated place the other prisoner's in their barracks had come to both acknowledge and keep a respectful distance from, sparing them some relative privacy. Especially at the moment, with respect to the circumstances.   
  
Garak grieved quietly, but he grieved nonetheless, and Julian kept vigil over him, as if almost protectively shielding him from the others—and Garak himself in a way. They sat huddled, their knees almost touching and Julian gripped his hand tightly in the discreet space between their legs and the wall.   
  
They didn't need to speak. Enough had already been said without ever being spoken and Garak was beyond grateful for the young man's profound empathy to know as much. His mere presence and compassion in this moment was all the solace he needed.   
  
  
                                                              <~>  
  
“All Cardassian prisoner's step forward.”  
  
Garak looked around hesitantly before obeying, stepping up with six other inmates.  
  
“I am pleased to announce that the hostilities between our peoples have ended. As of today, Cardassia has joined the Dominion. Therefore you're all being sent home.”  
  
Garak's eyes widened in surprise.   
  
“Congratulations on your new status as Dominion citizens. Not you, Mister Garak.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You're staying,” Deyos replied firmly.  
  
“Well, there must be some sort of misunderstanding. The last time I checked, I was a Cardassian.”  
  
“But not a very popular one, I'm afraid. At least not with the head of the new Cardassian government.”  
  
Garak inwardly gritted his teeth, having some deep suspicions as to whom the guard was referring to.   
   
“And who would that be?”  
  
“Gul Dukat.”  
  
                                                              <~>  
  
It was dark and everyone was asleep before Julian grabbed his wrist.   
  
“ _Are you awake?_ ” he hissed.  
  
“I am now,” Garak whispered back, lying. _How could he sleep?_  
  
“You would've gone,” Julian accused.  
  
“I would have,” Garak confirmed. “Does that surprise you?”  
  
“You would have left me? Just like that? No compunction about abandoning me here to rot?”  
  
Garak sighed. “Going back to Cardassia might have been the only real chance for saving us both. I could have contacted Starfleet. Did you really not consider that?”  
  
“I don't know, you could've started a new life. Unencumbered.”  
  
“If you truly believe that, then you're far less intelligent that I've given you credit for.”  
  
Julian's almost painful grasp around his wrist loosened, yet still he felt tense.   
  
“You think my allegiance is so unyielding I'd forgive a life under Dukat? Or the Dominion for that matter?” Garak demanded. “And after all this time, do you really think I could make any kind of life for myself knowing I hadn't done my best to ensure the safety of yours first?”  
  
Julian's grip slackened and he removed his hand.   
  
_I thought not._  
  
“But if it wasn't as it is now, then you would've stayed,” Julian intuited, a note of something defeated in his tone.   
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Garak replied, because of course _,_ he would have. He needed to lay Tain's ashes in the ground. He yearned to see Mila.   
  
And perhaps he could build a real life and a real home so that one day...  
  
 _He wouldn't let himself finish the thought. It was too far-fetched and beautiful to imagine._  
  
                                                               <~>  
  
“Clear,” the Romulan reported.  
  
Julian opened the panel and quickly helped him out of the wall. _He could breathe again._  
  
“That was thoroughly unpleasant.”  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  


“ I'm fine,” Garak assuaged. “It's just much hotter in there than I thought. I got a little lightheaded. Give me a minute and I'll go back in there.”

“ No, you need more than a minute,” Julian argued, worrying over him in a way that was more aggravating than endearing at the moment. “Your pulse is racing. I don't want to think about your blood pressure. Maybe you should wait until tomorrow.”

“ Do you want to get off this hellhole or not?”

“ _ You know I do. _ ”

“ Then let me get back to work.”

The Doctor looked him over with a concerned frown. “Rest for five minutes. And from here on in, you can take a fifteen minute break every hour. Doctor's orders.”

                                                              <~>

It was too hot. It was too cramped, and then the light went out and Garak was back in that closet; the walls were closing in—and then there was an arm around him, a hand on his shoulder, and the comforting soft sound of a dear, familiar voice.

“ Garak. Garak, you have to stop. You're making too much noise—”

“ The light. The light went out,” he tried to explain, his own, trembling voice sounding foreign to his ears.

“ I know. Come on, I think you can take your break a little early.”

                                                              <~>

He couldn't sleep, paralyzed by dark thoughts of darker places, and then suddenly, Garak felt the depression of his mattress and reflexively spun over to grab for the intruder's throat. His arm was deflected, however, grabbed by a surprisingly strong, long-fingered hand. “Garak. It's just me.”

Instantly, he relaxed, but only minutely.  _ What did the man think he was doing? _

The question answered itself as he felt Julian curl in behind him. He drew in a small, shaky breath as the young man smoothed a hand down his arm before wrapping it around him. “Go to sleep,” Julian ordered and surprisingly, for once Garak found it easy to obey.

                                                              <~>

“ I told you I'd be back,” Garak remarked to Ziyal.

Julian watched the young woman fling herself into Garak's embrace.

“ I never doubted it,” She professed, clinging to him happily.

Julian looked at the two.  _ Really looked.  _

Made himself see it in spite of how it pained him _. _

Maybe if he stepped back, Garak would give her a chance. It would be so much easier for him to bring her back home with him some day. They could have a real shot at a happy life together.

Julian had seen the depth of Garak's love for his father—that unearned devotion—the same he had for Cardassia herself.

Julian was only an obstacle and he knew it. It had a been a selfish thing to collect Garak in his arms that night under the guise of providing mere comfort.

Julian didn't know the precise moment it had dawned on him, but he loved him,  _ and if you love a thing, you're supposed to set it free, right? _

_Right?_   
  



	11. Chapter 11

Cardassia's alliance with the Dominion had been a blow, but the fact that the Founders—via Julian's double, had stolen a runabout with the intent of detonating the sun, an event which would have triggered a supernova of great enough magnitude to decimate everything within its radius: Bajor, DS9 and the combined Starfleet, Klingon and Romulan forces stationed in the system—had been a wake up call; an inarguable act of war that meant the Federation could no longer turn a blind eye.

Yet, because the attack had been successfully thwarted, and because there had been neither any admission of responsibility nor official declaration of war, the hands of the Federation and its allies were tied. At this juncture, any preemptive attempt to retaliate would be signing a death warrant for the quadrant, especially when they were neither prepared to mobilize nor had yet tabled all discussion of possible peace.

The situation was far too volatile and delicate to rush headlong into. Thus, in the interim, aside from an influx of visiting ambassadors and emissaries, an elevation in security personnel, and an underlying thrum of general paranoia, life aboard the station carried on much as it ever had: commerce still thrived, cargo freighters still zipped to and fro, vendors still put up their open signs in their windows at the same early hour, the dabo tables still bustled with commotion in the evenings, friends still strolled through the promenade together sharing conversation and enjoying each other's company…

Well, perhaps not  _ all  _ friends.

Throughout the weeks following their escape from the Dominion internment camp, Garak had withdrawn into himself and become something of a recluse. He spent most of his time cloistered up in his shop, working on orders in his backroom while Ziyal manned the desk and handled his customers.

“ _ 'The Phantom of the Station' _ still lurking in his lair?” Dax asked as Julian pulled up a chair at their table. He sighed. Ever since Miles had coined the moniker, the lieutenant had seen fit to persist using it in spite of the fact it was rather unlikely she actually understood the Terran reference in anything but its most obvious context.

Worf frowned. “It is not honorable to speak ill of a man behind his back.”

“ _ Oh, _ Julian knows I'm only teasing.”

“ I don't understand why I can't simply enjoy a meal in the company of good friends without the event being remarked upon every time,” Julian pouted.

“ It just seems so weird. The two of you were practically glued at the hip a few months ago,” Jadzia pointed out. “What happened— _ lover's quarrel _ ?”

Julian gave her a parsing glance before turning his attention to his stew, stabbing at it with some annoyance and Worf shot him a discreet, sympathetic frown.

“ You were not there in that internment camp, Jadzia,” Worf chastised. “You would not understand.”

“ It's not my fault you've both been so tight-lipped about it,” she defended. “Seriously, Julian, what's with you two? You avoid talking about it at all costs—”

“ Because there's nothing to talk about,” Julian firmly replied, cutting her off. Jadzia gave him a speculative look, but mercifully decided to drop the subject.

Later, Worf strode up beside him on his way back to the infirmary.

“ You should not pay mind to Jadzia.”

“ She only pries because she cares,” Julian remarked dryly.

“ It is her way,” he agreed, sounding as though he found the fact an unfortunate one.

Worf fell silent for a moment, contemplative. “Death of one's father changes a man,” he stated. “Give him time.”

Many of Garak's most closely guarded secrets had been revealed during their stint in the camp together, but Julian had seen him at his most vulnerable long before that. This wasn't why the man was now avoiding him. It was because he'd been there for him in his grief; had seen him fall apart and held him together the best he knew how.

Garak was, if nothing else, a proud man in many ways. And what's more, he didn't doubt he was still reeling from the fact Dukat had risen to power and allied his beloved homeland with the Dominion. He couldn't even begin to fathom the horror he must be feeling. Julian had always sustained a partiality for his homeworld—it was only natural—but Garak's devotion to his own, native soil was rooted far deeper.

Worf was right. He needed time to lick his wounds.

But, it didn't matter. If Garak was putting distance between them himself, it only meant Julian didn't have to.

Still, on his way back to the habitat ring, his heart twinged a little as he passed by the clothier's shop, and it clenched when he caught a glimpse of the man, oblivious to his observer as he hovered over his desk, entering his evening's inventory into his log.

For a moment, Julian almost gave in to the urge to rap lightly on his window—if only to see those brilliantly blue eyes look up at him just for a second…

But he thought better of it, and steeling himself, he forced himself onward toward his quarters.

In another week from that point, Garak hadn't completely bounced back to his regular self, but he had seemed to climb out of the pit and shake off the worst of his moroseness.

And to Julian's chagrin, this meant he'd begun to seek him out again.

“ _ I  _ am _ sorry, Garak, it's only that I promised Jadzia I'd join her and Worf for lunch today...” _

“ _ Major Kira challenged me to a Springball match, and I'm afraid I simply cannot cancel last minute...” _

“ _ Unfortunately I've already made plans to join Miles this evening for a game of darts / in the holosuite / for a drink at Quark's....”  _ Etcetera.

And after the fourth or fifth attempt, Garak had given him a tight, unhappy smile that said:  _ 'Ah, up to these same old tricks of yours again I see', _ and had done exactly as Julian had both hoped for and dreaded:

He left him alone.

<~>

Julian paced a hole in his rug— _ metaphorically,  _ that is.

_ How could he have been so stupid? _

Why had he agreed to be a part of the LMH program? To flatter his own ego? And what ego was it he'd meant to flatter? All his accomplishments over the years were just like Julian himself:  _ artificial. _

He was a scam; a fraud.

A monster. A mutant.

A freak— _ but not of nature _ .

And now everything he'd ever feared had come to fruition.

“ _ When the truth comes out, I'll be cashiered from the service. It's that simple.” _

“ _ There must be something we can do,”  _ Miles had consoled.  _ “We can't just give up.” _

“ _ There is one thing I can do,” _ Julian had replied, bitterly defeated.  _ “Resign before Doctor Zimmerman files his report.” _

“ _ Julian...” _

“ _ It's over, Miles. I always knew this could happen...now it has,”  _ he'd said, staring down at his desk.  _ “If you don't mind...I'd like to be alone.” _

When the Chief Engineer had left, feeling unworthy of his uniform, Julian had stripped out of it and changed into civilian attire. He folded it with bittersweet reverence and laid it neatly on the table to be turned in along with his badge and began the tiring process of packing his bags.

When he was done, he set his suitcase on the floor by the counter and poured himself a tall glass of synthehol to cushion his dark thoughts as he contemplated his fate. Starfleet would inevitably give him the boot if he wouldn't beat them to the punch, but he'd be forced to leave DS9 either way. And he honestly would prefer not to leave in handcuffs. Starfleet did  _ not _ suffer fraud gladly.

He'd been so insufferably cocky! He'd thought he could get away with it, that he could use his unasked for gifts for the greater good...he should have stayed home. He should have stayed on Earth and started a low-key practice in some small town where he'd be safe from scrutiny.

If he wasn't sentenced to prison, he'd undoubtedly be admitted to an institution. Somewhere with locked gates and highwalls. Somewhere he would always be under surveillance—forced to undergo treatment to dim his mind and cripple his will. He would have to flee, but where could he go?

The Federation had a grim, unsympathetic and unwelcoming view of those of his design. Such prejudice abounded in the collective subconscious all because once upon a time, one madman had made himself a demagogue.

He would be forced to find somewhere to live, but he knew he would be met with little more than suspicion and scorn wherever he would go. He would have to find work to survive, but he'd certainly be blacklisted from almost any worthwhile field. Likely, he would have to settle for some unskilled trade; take up manual labor on some remote mining colony somewhere along the edges of the quadrant.

He would likely never see any of his friends here again.

Of course, out of respect for such bonds and perhaps, due to some  _ fair _ amount of pity, Julian had very little doubt Miles or Jadzia would at least maintain some form of correspondence with him—to ensure his health and even try to buoy his spirits a little, but, being world's apart both literally in distance and figuratively in the routine and quality of their daily lives, would inevitably result to diminish the frequency of their obligation. Absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder—it makes the heart  _ forget _ .

And as for Garak?

Julian couldn't deny the thought of never seeing or talking to him again would be among the more devastating of hardships, but then, languishing in the regret of what had never happened between them; of what could never be—letting him go, watching him move on and ultimately remaining his friend (and  _ only  _ his friend), would be the more onerous of challenges in the long-run. Every cloud has its silver lining after all. Perhaps this separation could be viewed as something of a blessing in disguise.

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it  _ can _ ease some of the most keenly felt of its sting. However, Garak existed as such a constant,  _ piercing _ ache, he suspected such a thing would take a great deal of time to diminish..

In the midst of this dismal reverie, he heard his door buzz, alerting him to a visitor.

Julian's gaped a little in surprise to find the flesh-and-blood specter himself standing in his doorway.  _ Oh, this was the last person he wanted to see right now.  _ It would almost have been more of a relief had he answered the door to security officers, prepared to escort him off premises.

“ May I come in?”

“ What are you doing here?”

“ I understand I've come unannounced and I certainly don't mean to inconvenience you, however, unless at this very moment you're in someway indisposed, I would be much obliged if you would do the smallest courtesy of inviting me in,” Garak prefaced with exaggerated civility.

“ Unless, that is, you'd rather have this conversation in the hallway,” he added.

Julian swept a paranoid glance beyond the man, noting several Bajorans passing through, and quickly ushered Garak inside, closing the door quickly behind them.

“ Why are you here, Garak?” Julian repeated tersely, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Shouldn't you be at work?”

“ I could issue the very same question to you, my dear.  _ But... _ I don't think I will.  _ Yet. _ Now, won't you ask me to have a seat? Or perhaps offer me...whatever it is you have in that glass?” Garak suggested, with a pointed lift of an eye-ridge at his half-consumed drink on the counter. Julian felt his hands curling into tight, impatient fists.

“ I'm not looking to entertain guests right now. Nor am I in any mood to humor whatever it is you're playing at. Now you can either stop beating around the bush and spit out whatever it is you've come to say, or I will be happy to remind you that the door is just behind you.”

Garak eyed him over. “Your manners leave something to be desired,” he airily remarked before casually sidestepping around him. Julian watched with growing consternation as the galling man sauntered into his dinette.

“ Feeling a touch presumptuous, aren't we,” Julian scowled a bit petulantly, folding his arms across his chest as he watched the man peak into his cupboards in search of his liquor cabinet. “What exactly do you think you're doing, Garak?”

“ I should think that would be obvious,” the tailor replied, collecting a glass and pouring himself a drink.

“ Well, I can certainly see you're helping yourself to my hospitality.”

“ _ Such as it is _ ,” Garak retorted a bit churlishly. “You certainly do not prove yourself the most gracious of hosts,” he pointed out as he took a seat on the couch and gestured for Julian to join him. Julian irately grabbed his glass off the counter and headed over to take the diagonal chair.

“ So now that we've made ourselves  _ quite  _ comfortable, why don't we discuss why you're  _ actually  _ here.”

Garak gazed across at him curiously. “I thought you might find it interesting to know you're the subject of some speculation around the station of late,” he pointed out.

Julian squirmed a little in his seat with a creeping sense of anxiety.

“ As one goes about their day, one occasionally finds one's self stumbling upon the occasional snippet of idle gossip, and in passing, I happened to overhear some mention of some sort of 'holographic imaging project' you might be involved in.”

“ Word sure seems to get around,” Julian drawled, taking a long, fortifying sip of his drink.

“ Oh, but news  _ does _ travel fast when it's exciting,” Garak exclaimed. “What a sensational honor! You must feel quite pleased to have been selected as the template.”

“ Oh,  _ utterly. _ ”

“ Through the grapevine, I'd learned this Doctor Zimmerman fellow of yours had been conducting interviews to flesh out some insight into your character.”

“ As a method of  _ humanizing _ my holographic doppelganger,” Julian confirmed, wondering if Garak would be well enough informed to pick up on the irony of the statement.

“ Indeed. I am sure the good Doctor collected sufficient data for the task. Only, I must confess to feeling a touch... _ displeased _ to find I'd been excluded from the process. I had thought I would certainly be a worthy candidate, therefore, why shouldn't I have been nominated? Did I not meet the minimum requirements? Do I not have anything useful to contribute? Surely, after all this time, one would think I should know a thing or two about you that might help... _ round out _ the picture.”

Garak paused to take a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving his quarry. 

“Surely, this was some mere oversight...some rather gross bit of incompetence of the Doctor's, perhaps? Certainly you could not be held responsible for such negligence, could you? Yet, then it crossed my mind that perhaps the slight was intended after all,” Garak postulated. “Perhaps there was something that had...somehow disqualified my participation. Thus, intending to register my complaint with you, and perhaps with some motive in mind to clear the air on the matter, I stopped by the infirmary earlier this afternoon, only to note your curious absence.”

“ Ah, so if I understand you correctly, you're here to 'clear the air'?”

“ Perhaps partially,” Garak admitted, “Although that is perhaps a bit of a segue from the full explanation.”

“ In that case, don't let me lead you astray,” Julian replied, more than happy to avoid the subject.

“ Well, since it's been mentioned...” he trailed off, leaving the statement open ended as if he expected Julian to fill in the gap.

“ Why do I feel like I'm under interrogation?”

“ I wouldn't be able to tell you, Doctor, this is merely a friendly chat between two... _ friends _ . Is it not?” If anyone could imbue the word 'friends' in such a way to make it sound like 'enemies', it was this man.

Garak gave him a placid, neutral smile. “I am aware some...recent and honestly inexplicable estrangement between the two of us may have compelled you to fear some small, sliver of spite might loosen my lips. That something might... _ slip out _ , perhaps? Some  _ embarrassing  _ piece of information that you'd be convinced might do some damage to your  _ pristine  _ reputation?”

Julian shrugged, too tired to play this game. “If you had as much at stake as I did, you would have done the very same.”

Garak reacted with a small, surprised raise of his browridge; clearly not expecting such a forthright response. “Ah, so you don't deny it? How  _ refreshing, _ ” he remarked. “Now, if you'll forgive a trivial observation, I notice your use of the past tense. An interesting choice. Is it a conscious one?”

At this point?  _ Absolutely _ . What more could he possibly have to lose?

“ I suppose,” Julian replied, somewhere between teasingly cryptic and recklessly blunt; something for the other man to chew over.  _ Hell _ , if this was going to be their last conversation, might as well go out with a bang and give the other man a bit of sport.

Garak studied him as one might study something particularly interesting under a microscope. “Your mother and father seem charming.”

Julian blinked at the non-sequitur.

“ Oh, I didn't presume to make their acquaintance, of course,” Garak continued. “They appeared somewhat too preoccupied for any formal introductions. Notably anxious, in fact. And then it occurred to me that something may have gone awry and I was eager to know whether you were well. Naturally I was compelled to confirm whether my concern had any merit.”

“ You were concerned,” Julian remarked, vaguely skeptical.

“ Would you really begrudge me such a thing, Doctor? Surely it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise.”

“ So that's why you're here. You came to inquire after my health?”

“ Among other things,” Garak replied obliquely. “It's evident you've suffered some impediment in your project, and I've heard it said it's ill-advised to expect to find one's answers in the bottom of a bottle—particularly by one's self.” he added, raising his glass.

“  I appreciate your attempt to spare me from such a fate,” Julian replied, “But as you can see, I'm in tip-top shape.”

“Oh,  _ quite clearly, _ ” Garak smirked. “Regardless, it does not exempt explanation for your suitcase.”

_ Oh.  _ Right. That.

“ Are you...going somewhere?”

“ Yes,” Julian replied both succinctly  _ and _ enigmatically. Garak looked a touch irked for a second and Julian mentally patted himself on the back for managing to pull it off.

“ On holiday?”

“ A...very  _ long  _ holiday. Likely a permanent one.”

“ Ah, so you're dying?”

Julian chuckled darkly. “I'm resigning my post, Garak.”

“ Do you not feel you may be 'jumping the gun'?”

“ I don't take your meaning.”

“ I should think it would be a somewhat precipitous decision to simply give up everything you've worked for.”

“ I don't think I have much of a choice in the matter, to be honest.”

“ Frankly, Doctor, I'm disappointed in you. I thought there was more fire in your spirit, but instead at the first sign of trouble you wave your little white flag, tuck tail, and speed off in the other direction. Tell me,  _ my frightened little gutfish, _ where is it you plan to go?”

“ A penal colony or an Institution comes to mind if I can't make asylum somewhere.”

Garak leaned back in his seat to think, crossing his legs.

“ Mind, your predicament does pose something of a conundrum. I imagine there will be an inquest.”

“ I'll likely be charged for fraud,” Julian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers to ward off his headache. “Garak, how long have you known?”

“ About your... _ exceptional attributes? _ ”

“ Yes. Genetic recoding, DNA resequencing, whichever you'd prefer to call it! How long have you known I was an augment?”

Garak put up a hand, shrugging. “Surprisingly, not until this past second.”

“ You mean, you just put it together? Just now?”

“ You laid out a relatively clear groundwork of clues.”

“ So, all this time, you never suspected anything?”

Garak contemplated this. “I'm proud to say you're far more cunning a liar than I ever expected. Of course, I've long noted you are far quicker and stronger than your frame suggests, particularly for a human, as well as frightfully clever. Your swift and near faultless grasp of my mother tongue took me by some surprise, I admit. But, you know I've always admired the nimble deftness and sheer breadth of your mind.”

This managed to take the steam out of Julian and he slumped miserably down in his chair. “And now you know none of it was real.”

“ Your definition of 'real' must differ from my understanding of the word,” Garak replied. “Your body and brain may be enhanced, but your cleverness and wit, your empathy, your capacity for kindness and reason, these things are all your own. I will never regret a day I've spent in your company, nor are my memories of those times, the gravity of my respect, nor my profound affection for you diminished by this knowledge.”

For a second, feeling a little wild in his desperation, Julian was sorely tempted to get up from his chair, plant himself in Garak's lap and kiss him.  _ Why not be reckless? _ They were never going to see each other again, after all...

But then, wouldn't it only make it that much worse on both of them when he was forced to leave?

“ I'm thinking Algeron IV might be a good place to settle down,” Julian mused.

“ _ Ah, deflection! _ ” Garak exclaimed all at once with disbelief and exasperation, just about slamming down his empty glass as he sprang to his feet. “Very well,  _ Doctor _ , if that's how you want it, I'll let you have your way, because when can I ever deny you anything? If Starfleet does happen to relax its stringent policies for you and you do happen to remain in your post, perhaps eventually you will deign to have lunch with me sometime. I'm sure I would be glad of your company. After all, in spite of everything else, you have always been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing, and something which I've always cherished. However, if this is indeed to be the last we'll ever see of each other, know that I've made a valiant effort with you and  _ unto you,  _ as a parting gift, I relinquish any final burden of regret. That is by virtue of whether you have the decency to acknowledge any.”

“ Garak—” Julian pleaded miserably.

Garak's eyes flashed at him. “ _ Do not _ attempt to placate me with any of your trite excuses and hollow justifications, or worse, some empty platitude. They mean nothing and I've had about as much as I can take from you.”

Julian rose from his chair as Garak stormed to the door, but just as he was about to call out for him to stop, to stay, to listen, to do anything but leave him like this, Garak's hand hesitated over the switch panel.

With a world-weary, long-suffering sigh he turned back around and looked at Julian with something far away and bittersweet in his eyes. “I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Julian. I wish you well, whichever way the tides turn for you.” 

<~>

The next morning, Julian had gone to the Captain's office to turn in his resignation. Instead, he'd discovered his parents had already confessed and taken responsibility for everything. Via the holoprojector, Rear Admiral Bennett explained that a deal had been reached. Julian's father had pleaded guilty and would be serving two years in a minimum-security prison and in exchange, Julian could keep both his medical license as well as his commission. He reluctantly accepted his father's sacrifice and thanked Sisko and Bennett for their leniency.

As Julian had expected, word of his... _ abilities  _ had traveled quickly throughout the station. He had expected to become something of a pariah, yet curiously, to the contrary, he found himself regarded with something of a newfound respect. At least, among  _ non _ -Terran's. (Although, he had to give some credit to the magnanimous way both Sisko and Miles had taken everything in such stride.)

(Of course, with  _ some _ exception for the fact that the Chief Engineer now made Julian stand much further back when playing darts and had, on multiple occasions, threatened him with a blindfold.)

“ I get why your Federation is so paranoid,” Nurse Jabara said, “But the thing is, just because it's illegal save for those rarest of cases to correct only the most severe of genetic defects, doesn't mean it's ever going to stop those desperate enough from pursuing the procedure for their children.”

Julian nodded. “Of course. It just means they're forced to go about it via back-alley methods.”

“ Which is why it's so dangerous. Which is why the outcome is so rarely...well,  _ you, _ ” she added. “I can't blame your parents, Doctor Bashir. It's only natural a mother and father would do anything to provide their child with the best life possible. To ensure they will have the same opportunities as everyone else.”

“ Perhaps,” Julian shrugged, “But then, there will always be that temptation to go too far. Always those with stars in their eyes as they envision a  _ glorious _ future of success for their child, whose ambition is survived vicariously.” 

His tone of bitter castigation had not escaped the good nurse. 

“ Of course there's always a risk for abuse when there's no regulation!” Jabara exclaimed. “If only there wasn't such a stigma around it, genetic enhancement could be legalized, and with both proper funding and especially proper regulation, you wouldn't have any threat of creating that super-race you all live in perpetual mortal terror of. Most importantly, you could spare those unfortunate children whose procedures are botched from winding up institutionalized for the rest of their lives.”

“ You make a fair point,” Julian sighed, conceding to her point. 

“ In all honesty, if the Federation wasn't breathing down our necks, our scientists on Bajor would have been on board with it ages ago. Regardless, I'm just glad Starfleet made the right decision. I don't know what DS9 would do without you Doctor.”

It was an unexpected and pleasant experience to find himself so easily accepted, and more than anything, it was a relief to no longer have this heavy secret looming over his head; this threat that had haunted him for more than half his life. And, additionally, with everything out in the open, there was nothing left to throttle his potential; he could finally take off the metaphorical muzzle and eschew the chains that had limited him for so many years. No longer would he have any need to either temper his speech or suppress his physical aptitude—no longer would he be contracted to subdue his capacity for rapid analysis; he could finally whip through a calculation without pretending to stall upon its solution. 

In a sense, he was liberated.

However, Julian knew with indisputable certainty that unleashing the full breadth of his superhuman acumen would produce the undesired, but inevitable consequence of self-alienation—an outcome he sorely hoped to avoid. He couldn't miss the way Miles had looked at him after he'd hit three bull's-eyes in a row in rapid succession; and had done so in such a way as if to imply achieving such a feat had only bored him. Such a thing would naturally be somewhat diminishing to another's ego and likely to inspire some understandable degree of both resentment and fear. Thus, he grasped the fact that among others, there would always exist the necessity to monitor himself.

Julian knew he would always be subject to some mild, minor speculation—but such a thing was at least in his control to mitigate and regardless, both exercising some caution as well as practicing some level of self-restraint would be humbling enough to keep his humility in check. Not that he'd ever been at particular risk of developing any kind of superiority complex. After all, on those occasional, exhilarating occasions whenever he would find himself in the midst of celebrating some euphoric moment of success,, that merciless voice would slither out from the dark recesses of his mind to damper his good cheer, hissing its warning:

_'Now 'Jules',_ _be mindful of your pride...lest we forget to praise the true source of your triumphs.'_

Regardless, (not to be a martyr, but—) suffering this unpleasant reminder was a small price to pay to perform (as required by the circumstances) with autonomy as the expertly crafted instrument he was designed to be.

At the end of the day, Julian knew he ought to thank his lucky stars that everything worked out so astonishingly well for him. It very well likely could have gone the other way. Yet, one factor remained depreciating the overall positive outcome; a  _ minor  _ complication of getting to keep his post:  _ Garak. _

Their last encounter had concluded on somewhat rather... _ unpleasant _ terms, of which, had naturally resulted in some fair amount of lingering acrimony on Garak's end. It was becoming increasingly apparent that any suggestion of continuing their friendship had been made by the man in no more than the snidest and bitterest of jests; a verdict easily ascertained by virtue of the way he'd gone out of  _ his  _ to prove to Julian he was of utterly no consequence. 

This form of retaliation was _ by light-years _ more vindictive than simply avoiding him—(a deed which would have been far beneath Garak), and was executed with deadpan conviction. On whatever occasion they happened to cross paths, Julian was no better than a stranger. The man's eyes would simply gloss right over him, as if he were no more than just another mundane aspect of the scenery; a minutiae so irrelevant he didn't warrant the faintest of passing consideration. Then, in those circumstances necessitating some degree of interaction, Garak maintained a faultlessly schooled and credible act of disinterest. His conversation was stiffly formal and direct. There was nothing to convey that being subjected to Julian's presence either disturbed or impressed him. Julian was no more than yet another figure of authority aboard the station Garak owed a modicum of his typical, less than wholly sincere deference to and if he would so much as smile politely at something Julian had said? Well that was no more than a purely admissible technicality!

This was supposed to be a  _ good  _ thing! Julian had  _ wanted  _ this!

However, no matter how often he tried to remind himself of the fact, it failed to convince him.

Pythagorus extolled the prudence of strength of mind, the immortality of reason, yet paradoxically to his origin, Surak advised to keep open the mind  _ and  _ heart—that only then, the path would be clear.

Yet, what path was there to even forge down?

Should Cardassia ever summon home her errant son, then the son would be dutiful and return. This would be the death knell for any kind of relationship between them. And the thing was, when Julian set his heart on something, he never went about it in half-measures. It would be no light undertaking to embark upon such a thing with this man he admired more than anyone else he’d ever known. It would be all or nothing, and should Garak ever repatriate, he knew he would follow the man.

But Garak could offer him no kind of life there. Not in that type of inhospitable socio-political climate. Julian would only be a burden to him. 

Cardassia did not embrace outworlders, nor would she tolerate one of her own kind loving one—especially one endowed with the same trivial bits between the legs—because  _ apparently, _ such a thing was an  _ obscene  _ taboo, and, wouldn't it be bitterly ironic for Garak to become an outcast once again?

Julian would never wish for him such a fate. Nor himself, for that matter.

Although, because he had to over-analyze everything into the ground, he did find himself stumbling over one potential flaw in his logic, and the thing nagged at him relentlessly: what if he'd only told Garak the truth? What if he'd been more explicit—confessed what was  _ really _ in his heart?

They had danced around the damn thing for so long while using every literary reference they could find to illustrate the concept... _ but that was the game!  _ Julian was only playing by Garak's rules.

And anyway, he'd only faintly suspected what word it was they were both coyly shying away from...but then, by the time he'd finally permitted himself to acknowledge what he'd been denying he'd known all along, fear of the remote chance of suffering a broken-heart at some remote, indeterminable point, concealed beneath the feeble guise of being noble, he'd talked himself out of pursuing it.

_ But...w _ hat if he  _ had  _ spoken up and given a name to it?

Would it have changed anything? Could such verification lure Garak away from leaving him for his first love? Could he spurn Cardassia and stay for him?

... _M_ _ aybe.  _ And maybe the possibility should have been enough to take the risk, especially in the end, when he’d known their friendship was already at stake and he might not ever even see him again.  He had  _ nothing  _ to lose by trying and yet he'd  _ foolishly _ ducked away, taking the coward's way out, missing his window.

Now it was too late and Julian would likely never know.

_ 'For all your knowledge and insight—for however quick the cogs of your mind tick and turn—' _

— he would never be quick  _ enough. _

What good was it to be a human computer when he couldn't even get  _ this  _ right?

_ 'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings,'—  _ in other words: To err is to be human. But what tragic irony it is that this should restore his fraternity with his fellow man!

Oh, no doubt there was justification for Garak's punishment. His shame was well deserved. 

Regardless, that there’s no profit in dwelling over that which cannot be changed is a tautology to it, and Julian had wallowed in enough self-pity to line Quark's pockets over the past few weeks.

“Far be it for me to complain, but you have been parking yourself here almost every night,” Quark remarked. “On second thought, I think I’ll complain after all. All this scowling you’re doing is starting to scare away my other customers. What I recommend is a change of scenery. How about I jot you down for a couple hours in a holosuite? I have a few programs I think will be right up your alley.”

This piqued Julian's curiosity a little. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, I have something I could scrounge up with a particularly  _ fiery  _ little number. She's quite a hit with the other gentlemen, but if that's not to your taste, there's an option in the settings for something a bit more... _ strapping. _ ”

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass,” Julian replied flatly.

However, Quark's suggestion had merit. Perhaps a little escapism was just the ticket. He'd have to give Felix a call and see if he couldn't order something new.

Thankfully, when the program finally arrived, everyone was on board. Well, with the exception of Odo, whom had shown some reluctance at the idea of stealing the attractive Queen away from 'Falcon'. Of course, trying to coax him into playing by showing him her picture hadn't done the trick, but, much to Julian's surprise, he'd shown up anyway.

And frankly, the changeling had rather annoying timing.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Odo announced, peering through the window into the backseat where Julian sat beside the lusty hologram. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Of course. Driver, stop the car,” Julian directed, knocking on the window to the driver's compartment as the Constable climbed inside. “We'll just be a minute,” he explained apologetically to the pretty hologram as he opened the door for her to step out.

“Isn't that the woman I was supposed to steal away from Falcon?”

“Well, yes...but since you didn't show up...”

“You swept her off her feet,” Odo concluded.

“Sort of.”

“Tell me. How did you know she was interested?”

Julian shrugged a little guiltily. “It's that kind of program. What's this all about, Odo? You didn't come here to talk about women... did you?”

The Constable's expression was a little embarrassed.

“ _ Oh.  _ This is about  _ 'bedroom eyes',  _ isn't it?”

“Who told you about her? Kira?”

“No.”

“ _ Dax, _ ” Odo stated confidently.

“Actually, it was Miles.”

Odo looked somewhat appalled to hear as much and reached for the door handle to get out. Julian stopped him. “If people are talking, it's only because they care. You put on a good front, but anyone who really knows you can see that you're lonely.”

Oh, the relevance!  _ Good form, Julian. Way to sound like you can't relate. _

The Constable studied him a little suspiciously and Julian quickly continued. “If you're interested in this woman, you have to let her know,” he explained sagely— _ hypocrite that he was! _

“I can't.”

Julian frowned. “Why not?”

“What if I...what if she—”

“— _ Rejects you? _ ”

Odo's reaction tells him he's hit the nail on the head. “She might. But, you can't go through life trying to avoid having your heart broken. If you do, it'll break you from loneliness anyway. So, you might as well take a chance. If you don't, she'll never know what you might have had, and living with that, would be worse than having a broken heart, believe me,” Julian explained softly, “I know.”

The changeling's face flipped through a range of expressions before settling on one of understanding...and then, he regarded Julian with a small flicker in his eyes of something approaching sympathy.

In the end, when the sleeper agent had left the station, Odo had found him cleaning up in the infirmary.

“I meant to thank you,” he announced.

“There's no need to,” Julian assured him.

“I don’t regret taking your advice.”

Julian frowned, frankly rather puzzled, because following his advice had only resulted in disappointment and heartache for the man. He felt kind of bad about it, actually. Julian was sure he’d mostly meant well, but in a  _ small  _ way, hadn’t he kind of set Odo up for this, like a test subject in an experiment in a sort of  _ far-reaching  _ way? 

“There's an old adage I once heard, that it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. I'm beginning to understand its meaning,” Odo explained. “This...affair with Arissa was not without its lessons.”

“Ah,” Julian carefully replied and the Constable studied him thoughtfully.

“It's one I would impart to you, Doctor.”

Julian scoffed. “ _ Doctor heed thy own advice? _ ”

“I don't think it's too late. For either of us. Our...situations don't differ vastly,” Odo stated.

Julian inwardly groaned.  _ What,  _ was  _ everyone  _ on this station omniscient?

Or, maybe he and Garak really  _ had  _ been that obvious. Although, he did consider the fact that Odo and Garak had seemed to become something of friends over the years, hadn’t they? 

_ How much did the man know? What had he pieced together from observation and his keen listening skills? _

In any case, it was clear the Constable was also referring to the messy thing he had with Kira, and the man had a point. Their situations did somewhat reflect each other.

“Nothing's impossible,” Julian sighed, conceding without much conviction.

“I can tell you don't believe that,” Odo intuited. “I...know that you and I have not been...particularly close in the past, so I hesitate to presume by correcting you,” he prefaced. “However, as you've paid me a favor, I am in your debt. Thus, I will give  _ you _ a word of advice.”

He waited a beat. 

“ _ Talk  _ to him.”

A little annoyed, Julian glanced a somewhat strained smile back toward the Constable. “I'll...take your suggestion under review.”

Odo narrowed his eyes at him and his mouth  pressed into a thin, skeptical line as if he doubted it, but would refrain from saying anything else on the the matter. “Very well,” he said. “Then, good evening, Doctor.”

“You too, Odo,” Julian replied, sighing with some relief as the changeling departed.

<~>

Then, everything went to hell.

Upon Starfleet's orders, Sisko deployed a field of self-replicating mines along the entrance of the wormhole to block further Dominion reinforcements from reaching Cardassia. However, shortly after the task had begun, Weyoun declared that the Dominion would attack the station unless the mines were removed. As the operation continued, Sisko evacuated the station to prepare to surrender it over to Dukat and his troops while directing Starfleet personnel to board the Defiant.

The occupants cleared out and proceeded onward to their respective planets while Odo, Kira, Quark and Jake stayed behind. Which left only Garak, whom, between the devil and the deep blue sea, having literally nowhere else to go, joined aboard with Sisko's crew.

Quarters were cramped with every bunk claimed and even then, some spare cots had been pulled into the storage closets. Which meant everyone was up in everyone else's business and no one was very happy about it. Now, Julian considered that maybe Garak was bored, or perhaps he was just feeling a bit antsy to be cooped up with all the officers like a blue bowl in a cabinet with red dinnerware, but in any case, regardless of the reason, the man seemed to be homing in on him wherever he would go as if he was some kind of heat-seeking missile and Julian was some luminously infrared flare.

Not that Garak was particularly pleasant company, as he seemed to take especial pleasure in needling him. 

But, really, what else should Julian have expected? Frankly, it was amazing the man was even  _ voluntarily  _ talking to him… although, he could do nothing but complain and criticize Julian and everything else which Julian had initially given him the benefit of the doubt for by interpreting as some kind of coping mechanism for his anxiety, and this was only because he was honestly a bit desperate to prove himself supportive and worthy of resuming a friendship with. If the man would be willing, of course. Only, he was clearly only interested in making Julian's day just a little more miserable, and after enduring this for awhile, Garak's unceasing barbs were beginning to grate on his already fried nerves. Thus, he spent the better part of three days keeping a wary eye out for the man so he could be prepared when he'd drop by with a built in excuse to pawn off his belly-aching onto somebody else.

The most recent skirmish with the Jem’Hadar  had left them all a bit bruised and banged up and finally, just when Julian had thought he might catch a moment's breath, alone in the medical bay at last for the first time in...what? Minutes? Hours? Days?—he headed back to his consult room only to find Garak already there waiting for him. “ _ Ah, _ there you are. I'd just about given up hope, Doctor. I would think that all those lunches we've shared would've entitled me to preferential treatment,” he remarked, following Julian over to the side counter.

“Look,” Julian sighed, doing nothing to conceal his exasperation, “I have twelve wounded officers and crewmen out there, all of whom are in a lot worse shape than you, Garak.”

“Well, if you're trying to cheer me up, it's working. I feel better already.”

“What happened?” Julian asked as he busied himself entering his afternoon's logs into the database.

“I was studying some star charts for Captain Sisko during the last assault when I had a sudden and rather violent encounter with a bulkhead.

Julian spared him a cursory glance. “You'll live,” he declared, less than wholly sympathetically.

“I wish I shared your confidence,” Garak replied as Julian scanned him with the tricorder. “I'm sure my head will heal, but the way this war is going, I wouldn't bet on any of us living to a ripe old age.”

“I admit the odds aren't good, but they could be worse.”

“Let me guess. You've used that genetically enhanced brain of yours to calculate our chances of survival.”

“It really wasn't that difficult,” Julian said tiredly. “I simply started with a binomial—”

“ _ I'm really not interested, Doctor, _ ” Garak interjected, cutting him off a bit brusquely. “Ever since it's become public knowledge that you're genetically engineered, you've used every opportunity to show off.”

That wasn't exactly fair. A little true at times, perhaps, but overall, Julian thought he was a doing a pretty decent job of keeping low-key. “I have nothing to hide anymore. I might as well use what I have.”

“Well, what are our chances? Over fifty percent?”

_ Yours and mine?  _ Julian smiled grimly to himself,  _ just under 16 percent, and even that's an optimistic estimate. _

“Thirty-two point seven,” he replied flatly.

“I'm sorry I asked,” Garak drawled. “You're certain about that figure?”

“Do you really want me to take you through the entire set of calculations?”

“Not really. Genetically engineered,  _ indeed. _ ”

Julian blinked, taking offense and feeling too drained to conceal how cross he felt about it. “ _ Excuse me? _ ”

“Well  _ look _ at you,” Garak exclaimed. “You act as if you haven't a care in the world. It's exactly that kind of smug, superior attitude that makes people like you so unpopular.”

“Are you  _ trying  _ to insult me?”

“A thirty-two point seven chance of survival. I call  _ that _ insulting.”

“Don't take it so personally, Garak. It's strictly a matter of mathematics.”

“No. It's strictly a matter of our lives,” Garak countered curtly. “You're not genetically engineered. You're a Vulcan.”

Julian grinned.  _ He's trying to provoke me! _ “If I'm a Vulcan, then how do you explain my boyish smile?”

Garak glanced down at said smile, which was truly more of a smirk. “Not so  _ 'boyish' _ anymore, Doctor,” he decided, which, in his tone, could have been construed as a veiled compliment.

Later that evening in the mess hall, mostly cleared out aside from a few small groups of crew members chatting and playing cards, Julian sat down to finally eat dinner. Halfway through, he glanced up in some surprise as Garak set down two cups of hot tea, pushing one across the table to him.

_ Huh,  _ Julian wondered, picking up on a more serious vibe than usual from the other man. He glanced up with a small, brief smile and braced himself for whatever explanation Garak was about to give him.

“I thought you could use some company. And perhaps something to warm you up a little.”

Julian raised an eyebrow.  _ That was a surprisingly genuine sounding reply... _ as well as, a rather decent gesture!

“I appreciate it,” he said somewhat uncertainly before lifting the mug up to his mouth.

“Careful,” Garak cautioned, “It's _ piping _ hot. You might want to let it sit for a minute.”

“Thanks for the head's up.”

“You look tired Doctor,” Garak remarked, taking a seat. “Of course, I'm sure we all do at this point. I know I certainly am...”

Julian wasn't sure if this was double-speak or if the man was merely reverting back to his typical equivocation.  _ Perhaps I should stop trying to look for a hidden meaning in everything he says, _ he rebuked himself a second later.  _ Best not to get your hopes up, Julian. _

“I apologize if I came off a bit terse earlier,” he continued, “I'm merely on edge from some lack of sleep. I fall into bed exhausted lately, but I can't seem to shut off my thoughts.”

“I wish I could suggest a sedative, but unfortunately I'm having to ration what I have left of the supply for emergencies.”

Garak waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “I was merely griping.”

“I would typically ask what's troubling you, but I think we all have a lot on our minds. You're hardly alone,” Julian assured. “Besides,” he added with a small, subtly playful grin. “I'm a Doctor, not a therapist.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your vocation, Doctor,” Garak smiled dryly. “Still, you have been remarkably patient with me. I must be growing quite wearying on you.”

Julian looked at him curiously. Such a self-deprecating remark without any of it matched in his expression! “Well,” Julian replied carefully, “I admit, you're a trifle vexing at times.”

“As are you, Doctor,” Garak returned without any bite, cocking his chin a little to the side as he regarded him with some equal speculation. “In fact, recently, I can't seem to make heads or tails of you.”

Julian's hand tensed slightly around his mug as he blew off some of the steam from the top. “That's a coincidence. I've been thinking along the same lines about you,” he pointed out before taking a cautious, testing sip of the beverage. “ _ Red-Leaf _ ,” Julian identified, slightly perplexed.

“To answer your obvious question:  _ no, _ I haven't tampered with the replicator. I have a small stash I brought along for the trip. I only wish I had known how long it was going to be,” he ruefully sighed.

“Thank you for thinking to share with me, Garak,” Julian said meaningfully. “Although…it’s inspiring some small amount of nostalgia at the moment.”

“It does have a rather bittersweet flavor for being of such a mild blend.”

“I can't help but recall how often we used to drink tea over lunch and argue over what was better: Red Tea or Tarkalean, how often we would debate books and politics and whether or not the Major was secretly plotting to poison you...back in those days when my gravest concern was defending myself against your unfair criticism of my fashion sense...” Julian reminisced fondly before trailing off.

“It was a different era,” Garak loosely supplied.

“Indeed. Those were the days, weren't they? Whoever would have thought we would end up here.”

Julian suspected that although Garak offered no immediate reply, the extra layering of meaning in this sentiment had not been lost on him. He reflected curiously on how strangely pensive he looked; how quiet he'd suddenly become. This was a man who was always ready with a clever quip or quick rejoinder; a profound bit of wisdom or sharp observation...but neither seemed forthcoming.

“In the absence of anything of more substance to say, I think I'll bow out before I bore you and excuse myself to bed,” Garak finally replied. “Sleep well, Doctor.”

“You too, Garak,” Julian bade, not sure whether to be disappointed by the gently abrupt, premature withdrawal from the unusual conversation or a little elated by the tone of honesty throughout the thing.

Julian watched Garak pick up his mug and exit into the corridors.

What had he meant by that  _ 'I can't seem to make heads or tails of you'  _ comment?

And more to the point: had Garak somehow—without Julian fully realizing it—extended a renewal of friendship?

<~>

Julian stared down numbly at Ziyal's lifeless body laid out on the gurney.

Kira sat behind him, quiet tears still streaming down her face.

“Does Garak know?”

“Yes,” the Major replied, her voice heavy and soft with grief. “He was here a little while earlier to say goodbye.”

A chill passed through him.

“I believe he returned to his quarters,” she offered.

Julian's heart felt like a brick in his chest. He put a comforting hand on the Major’s shoulder and she reached up her own to place over his. 

“Would it be alright if I said a few words of your dirge with you?”

“I think we would both be honored,” Kira replied sparing a wistful glance for Ziyal before standing up to join him at the side of her resting place. 

She took his hand again and they both closed their eyes, chanting in unison:

_ “Ahn-kay ya, ay-ya vasu. Coh-ma-ra, di-nay-ya. Ahn-kay ya, ay-ya vasu.”  _

“I’m so sorry, Kira. Truly.”   


“She was too kind and too young,” Kira said brokenly.

“I know she loved you and cherished your friendship,” Julian replied. “And I know she’s smiling down on you from the Celestial Temple.”

“Thank you, Julian, that means a lot.” 

<~>

“Garak, _ please, let me in _ ,” Julian pleaded softly through the door for a third and final time before leaning his forehead against its surface in defeat.

<~>

Over the following week, DS9 was cleaned up and repopulated as the majority of the Bajorans and other residents slowly filtered back in. Life resumed as close to normal as possible considering the circumstances, but there was that renewed undercurrent of insecurity lined with desperation; as if the apocalypse could strike at any moment. However, as if there had been some kind of unanimous, unspoken agreement, a sort of artificial, exaggerated sense of normalcy had been embraced.

As the station geared up for Worf and Jadzia's wedding (a pleasant respite in the midst of war), Garak returned to work to fill the copious amount of incoming orders.

Over the last few weeks before the reclamation of DS9, the two of them had reached a sort of tentative accord. Not quite friendship—and nothing like before, but it was certainly a vast improvement over being ignored or being purposefully provoked. Thus, Julian resolved to keep his distance. He'd made it clear enough to the other man that he would be available for him should he have any want or need to talk, or desire so much as even the mere solidarity of quiet company, but Garak kept to himself and Julian was neither very surprised nor inclined to take it personally.

Still, his absence was felt, and Julian was almost grateful to be swept into the commotion of wedding planning—which was actually rather last minute, considering the original location of the union had been moved from Qo'nos to the station, and even then, no one had been certain it would move forward after Jadzia had decked the Martok matriarch in charge of conducting her Bre'Nan. But alas, everything had worked out after all and a particular source of convenient distraction was provided courtesy of joining the Captain, Miles, and Worf's son Alexander to partake in the rigorous trials of Worf's Kal'Hyah, which turned out to bear little resemblance to any of the bachelor parties Julian had ever been to before.

Finally, the day had arrived and everyone gathered together for the ceremony and Julian found himself getting a bit misty eyed as the Captain escorted Jadzia down the aisle. 

“ _ Just a bit of sand, _ ” he’d chuckled in excuse after Keiko had placed a placating hand on his arm.

Jadzia’s bold red traditional Klingon ceremonial gown looked splendid on her. Garak had done an admirable job on the costuming for the event, but then, the Trill could make anything look like artwork.

During the exchange of vows, feeling just a little choked up,  Julian squeezed the hand of his friend’s poor wife to try to keep from making a spectacle of himself and Miles shot him a perturbed glance.

“ _ Try 'n hold it together, will ya'? _ ” he grinned. Julian flashed him a grin of his own and shrugged. “ _ It’s touching, _ ” Julian defended. 

Miles gave a small, amused snort. “ _ You’re such a sap, Julian _ .”

The man had a point, but Julian was just moved. Truly thrilled he could be here on this beautiful occasion to watch his friends formalize their love for one another.  

And, besides. Jadzia was simply  _ stunning _ ; radiant in every way. 

Julian smiled, taking in a shaky breath—and for a moment, he felt a tug of regret; a slight pang of longing for that time _ (so long ago now!)  _ when he'd fancied her madly _ —how young he'd been _ , he suddenly realized, what a blissfully naive infatuation he’d had for the gorgeous Trill. How utterly convinced he’d been of his ardor! 

Julian felt a slight curl of a small, self-deprecating grin.

Contrary to popular belief—a belief which he’d cultivated over the years as a part of his _grand illusion,_ he was not the hapless, blundering, cheese-ball of an idiot-savant he appeared to be--(well, maybe there was a touch of truth to it. Faintly.) However, he wasn’t as lacking in common-sense as he made it seem. 

In fact, Julian Bashir had quite a sound grasp of his fundamental nature, and one aspect of himself he was rather  _ keenly _ conscious of, was the fact that he was a mooning, quixotic-waxing, starry-eyed romantic at heart; in love with love itself, and chasing after that elusive happily-ever-after fairy-tale ending, he'd flit through one whirlwind romance after the next, falling hard and falling fast  _ every time.  _ No matter how transitory and fleeting, he would always delude himself that this was  _ it! _ Here was his very own, epic romance for-the-pages! 

What kind of _blind_ _fool_ he’d been; so cocksure and arrogant! He’d only ever scraped the bottom of the barrel. He hadn’t the faintest concept of the genuine article. 

How strange it was, that in just a handful of years he'd grown up so much—from that wide-eyed and unseasoned young man whom had just barely cusped from summer to springtime stepping aboard the station for the first time, filled to the brim with such grand ambition and idealism; such magnificent hopes and wild, fantastic dreams—to the man he was now: hardened by war and death and loss and heartbreak; mellowed by experience; changed by time—

—and ultimately,  _ by love _ .

—A love that was wise and achingly self-aware.

—That knew itself to its center-most core—down to the very fabric that sizzled and snapped at the deepest, most subatomic level of his being.

<~>

Half-way through the reception, Miles noticed his half-empty glass of champagne sitting abandoned on the table beside his own and wondered where he’d gone off to, but when he asked Keiko she came up with a blank, because, as they both glanced through the crowd, Julian was nowhere in sight.

<~>  

The best view from the entire station, was, in Julian's opinion, not from the observation deck, but out the window of the port door on the tip of docking pylon three. One could see the station, the tiny speck of Bajor twinkling far off in the distance and the diaphanous arms of the wormhole spiraling around its glowing center. Most importantly, one of the port's most attractive features was that at this time of night, there was under a four percent probability of finding anyone else there.

Seeking some clarity of mind—or rather to escape dwelling over the clarity of certain thoughts dwelling there, Julian took a swig of synthehol and gazed out at the stars, watching the slow drift of the constellations rotating around him.

_ The Five Brothers..The Dawn and The Orb, Petalune… _ and then there were  _ The Flames— _ this star-grouping was the one that had most often caught his eye over the past few years _ :  _ there were three points that made its base with four more in the shape of a double-u to create the flares, and then cresting high in the center, blazed Verkoun, the sun of Cardassia Prime.

Julian wondered how often Garak's eyes would search off into the sky for his home.

His mind drew an involuntary, somber picture of him standing in this very spot, peering out the window longingly... _ why did his thoughts always have to circle back to the man? _ There was never  _ any  _ escape!

Julian took another long pull and placed a hand on the door latch to steady himself.

“'Doubt thou the stars are fire'? _ ” _ Garak quoted, popping up out of nowhere like the devil himself.

Julian yelped, whipping around in surprise and nearly dropped his bottle, but the other man strode forward rescuing it.  _ “Christ, _ Garak! You can't just sneak up on a person like that!” Julian exclaimed, his heart pounding.

Either his current level of intoxication had been enough to supercede his augmented senses or the ex-spy's abilities had not declined over the years in their dormancy.

“My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you,” Garak replied with a somewhat amused and insincere smile.

“What are you doing here?” Julian demanded a second later after recovering from his shock.

“I thought I'd poke my head into the reception to admire my handiwork and give the newlyweds my congratulations. I had wondered if I might find you to share a drink, only it appeared you'd ducked out early.”

“Yes, well.  _ Festivities _ ,” Julian shrugged derisively, by way of explanation.

Garak smirked down at the bottle he'd caught and peered back up at him curiously. “So, are we stargazing or navel-gazing?”

“Oh, you know. Why not both?” Julian supplied loosely, reclaiming possession of his synthehol.

“Ah, pondering the vastness of the infinite cosmos...always a worthy endeavor,” Garak conceded. “Tell me, what's brought on this melancholic pursuit? A touch of...mild jealousy perhaps? Worf is indeed a lucky man.”

Julian took another swig from his bottle. “Sure. Aren't they both?” he asked, his lips feeling a bit looser than usual. “Well, you know what they say, 'fortune favors the bold',” he claimed a little bitterly. “And what am I but  _ 'fortune's fool'. _ ”

“Everything is cause and effect, my dear Doctor, there isn't a script,” Garak corrected, strolling up beside him. Julian followed his gaze back to The Flame.

“You still miss it?”

“Every day _ , _ ” Garak admitted, sounding both wistful and frustrated. “Ziyal's death only further stirred the loss.”

“Maybe someday after the war you'll get to go back.”

Garak's expression was grimly skeptical as he continued to stare outward. “If I live to see that day, it will be a desolate world I return to indeed.”

Julian frowned, unclear. “Not necessarily. There's only so much damage one man can do,” he offered.

Garak shot him  a small, bemused glance. “Don't be naive,” he chided.

Julian could accept he’d mistook his meaning, but he wasn't sure in what way, nor what Garak had meant by his reproach.

“What is Arcadia to the forsaken?  _ 'Chek ga ssi vin-dalmak sep tho ghevon' _ ?”

_ What is the sea to a ship with no sail?  _ Julian felt his heart skip a beat.  _ Oh, _ how he wanted this to mean only one thing...

But surely not. Not anymore. 

“Ah, _ transparency! _ ” Garak exclaimed beneath his breath, sounding angry at himself. “ _ And you call yourself a fool _ ,” he scoffed, stealing Julian's bottle and taking a long pull from it.

“I'm sure Ziyal would've loved Cardassia,” Julian weakly offered.

Garak looked at him disdainfully for a second before his expression softened into exasperated fondness. 

“It's a good thing for both of us you're inebriated.”

A somewhat awkward tension hung in the air, suspended there in silence for a few seconds.

“Are we friends?” Julian suddenly asked, the blunt question falling out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Garak regarded him with a bit of a lofty, long-suffering smile. “ _ Honestly,  _ Julian. I know you've had a touch too much from that bottle, but you're the one with the enhancements. So use them. What do  _ you  _ think?”

Julian grinned. “Alright, Garak, I get it,” he grumbled through a chuckle, stealing back his drink.

“Good. Then I'll look forward to seeing you at lunch this Tuesday at our regular time.”

Julian heart did a leap. “As will I,” he replied meaningfully. 

If nothing else, at least he had this much.

It would have to suffice. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Tinsnip's Cardassian dictionary for the quote. Xenolinguistics are hard.


	12. Chapter 12

Ah, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

This endeavor to mend their fractured friendship had started off on a good foot, but in part due to circumstances and in part due to the inevitable nature of disappointment, over the following year, both Garak and Julian had found themselves drifting in their own directions.

Garak had become a vital tool for their cause against the Dominion, and between helping to decode Cardassian military transmissions and keeping up with his work in his shop, there had been very little time left over for recreation anyway. Julian knew it was petty to resent the other man for a situation beyond either of their control, but in some ways, Garak had seemed all too happy to adopt this as a convenient excuse to distance himself, and it made such a faultless alibi, Julian was powerless to call him out on it.

With a pang of regret, he tried to convince himself it was for the best.

Oh, he didn't deny that the love he'd felt was real. But  _ love _ , he decided, (trying very hard to convince himself of it), was an ephemeral thing tempered by time. He would move on because he had no other choice. Garak had stripped him of it. 

Regardless, the year had dealt them all its fair share of blows, and thus, any chance he could steal a moment in the other man’s company amidst the hectic scramble was cherished. Even if it meant such an instance was too often met with either a genuine or fabricated excuse on Garak's part to cut the occasion short.

The worst part of this was, Julian's list of friends was rather limited these days.

Jadzia's death had hit them all hard, and no one quite knew what to make of Dax's successor; this fresh-faced young ensign who carried so many lifetimes of memories and hardly knew what to do with them or what to do with anyone else for that matter. But, as Ezri attempted to find her footing—figuratively and  _ literally  _ (the poor dear and her motion sickness!), Julian found himself naturally gravitating toward her.

First of all, as the station's new counselor, she wasn't quite as busy as the others. Secondly, he found her intriguing. There were vague, recognizable shades of Jadzia that would surface at times and yet ultimately, she was still her own person...and frankly, Julian  _ liked  _ that person. Ezri was down to earth in a way Dax's prior host had never been and for all the bittersweet nostalgia he felt being around her, she was still surprisingly  _ easy  _ to be around.

Obviously, this had the somewhat unfortunate result of creating some tension between himself and Worf, but the Klingon was slowly coming around. And as tried to reason with the surly man, there was nothing between them to even be threatened by (a little white lie couldn’t hurt). Because, even if Julian had, for even the slightest second, humored the idea of venturing into anything beyond a platonic relationship with Ezri, she had put an axe in the idea right off the gate.

“ _ This might be the last thing you want to hear, but you have Jadzia's eyes, _ ” he'd told her, “ _ I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.” _

“ _ Don't flirt with me, Julian. Please. _ ”

“ _ I'm not, _ ” he'd defended. And he really hadn't meant to. Not really.

“ _ I remember the way you used to flirt with Jadzia. _ ”

“ _ It was just an observation. _ ”

“ _ Good. Because I'm not like her. She knew how to handle it.” _

Then, she had said something which had floored him—floored  _ and  _ had lit that smallest flicker of that old, long-buried hope: “ _ Actually, she quite enjoyed it. _ ”

“ _ Really? _ ” Julian had blinked, surprised by the revelation.

“ _ You didn't know? _ ”

Julian had quirked a small, less than modest grin. “ _ I...always suspected. _ ”

“ _ You can be very charming, _ ” Ezri had admitted. “ _ You want to know something? If Worf hadn't come along, it would have been you. _ ”

There could've been some potential there, Julian had realized somewhat begrudgingly. Something to ponder after—something...that might have been nice to aspire to if she hadn't given such a discouraging preface to this confession. After all, it wasn't like he had anything else waiting on the horizons. Not anymore.

After Ezri had helped Garak recover from his recent spell of that old, latent claustrophobia he suffered from, the tailor had returned to his service for Starfleet and had even managed to finish the costumes for Julian's program with Miles and Odo.

“ _ How are you feeling, Garak? _ ” Julian had asked when he'd come to pick up their order.

“ _ Ah, quite well, actually. I've made a remarkable improvement thanks to our new counselor. _ ”

“ _ I'm glad to hear it, _ ” Julian had replied, genuinely relieved.

“ _ I have every faith that given time, the ensign will prove herself worthy of her predecessor. It certainly bodes well how quickly everyone is warming to her, _ ” Garak had remarked.

“ _ Indeed, _ ” Julian had agreed. “ _ She does seem to be fitting right in. _ ”

“ _ One can hardly be surprised. She is quite a charming young lady after all. In fact, _ ” Garak added, “ _ It appears the two of you are becoming fast friends yourselves. _ ”

The tone of his observation had been light, but Julian could hear a note of what he was really implying, and for a second, he'd wondered if there was something faintly accusatory simmering below the surface—some small hint of jealousy. He'd studied the other man speculatively for a second, attempting to gauge if his suspicions had any merit, but Garak had been as cool as ever; smiling back at him in that unaffected, pleasant way that expressed nothing more than simple, friendly curiosity.  _ Ah, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,  _ Julian bitterly thought to himself.

“ _And why not?_ ” He'd confirmed, every bit as lightly. “ _She may not be Jadzia, but she's still 'Dax'._ _Besides, I find Ezri's company quite delightful.”_

Garak seemed nothing but pleased to hear so, and sent him along his way, promising (politely, if somewhat disingenuously) that he would try to find time to have lunch with him at some point in the future. Julian knew not to take that at face-value.

It was one thing to be preemptively rebuffed by Ezri, but it was a bit more of a punch to the gut to be reminded for the umpteenth time that Garak was a definitive lost cause.

Rejection often has a way of lending itself to a sore ego; but the double hit of it left Julian reeling. And with this keening sense of desperation; this longing to fill the aching hole inside his chest, he'd latched onto the first seed of possibility that had come his way.

When the 'mutants' had arrived back aboard the station with Sarina in tow—when Julian had at last cured the young woman of her cataleptic state, he'd become so very fond of the person he'd helped emerge from her shell—he'd deluded himself into thinking maybe she could be the one. The one he could pour all his fulminating, long-denied hopes and dreams into; that she would take his heart gladly—

“ _ Miles, I don't think you understand what this means to me,”  _ he'd tried to explain. “ _ All these years I've had to hide the fact that my DNA had been resequenced. I'd hear people talk about the genetically engineered, saying they were all misfits. I used to fantasize about meeting someone like me—someone who was was able to live a normal life. But it never happened. Until Sarina. Don't you see? She's the woman I've been waiting for all my life.” _

But, this kind, gentle, inexperienced young woman hadn't known what to do with what he offered; didn't want it, and didn't know how to tell her hero his love was neither wanted nor returned. At least, not until he'd pushed it out of her.

“ _ I hear you arranged a position for Sarina at the Corgal Research Center, _ ” Miles had mentioned carefully.

“ _An internship,_ ” Julian had explained flatly. “ _She's going to work under one of the scientists there, live with his family._ ”

Miles had looked at him with pity writ in his eyes. “ _ You okay? _ ”

No.  _ No.  _ He was  _ not  _ 'okay'.

“ _ How could I have been so blind, Miles? What was I thinking trying to move things along so fast? She needed time, and I didn't give it to her. I came this close to driving her back inside herself. I'm supposed to be a doctor, _ ” Julian had replied, disgusted with himself. “ _ I'm supposed to put my patient's needs above my own. _ ”

“ _ You didn't want to be lonely anymore...nobody does, _ ” Miles had concluded wisely.

And that was the thing of it. That was what had compelled him to finally throw everything to the wind and pursue Ezri—which was why, when they finally kissed—when they finally got together, he'd felt like the world had finally cut him a break and a long deserved one at that.

But, whatever mercy the cosmos had delivered for Julian, it hadn't spared for Cardassia.

Weyoun's announcements had rung throughout the station. Due to the sabotage carried out by the dissenters, the Dominion had reduced Lakarian City to ashes. There were no survivors. Two million men, women and children were simply  _ gone in a matter of seconds. _

And then, after the Federation had demolished the orbital weapon platforms—after they had quashed the remaining Dominion troops in their ground assault, little of anything or anyone was left standing on the entirety of the planet.

“ _ Eight hundred million dead _ ,” Julian uttered in disbelief; shaken to the core.

Garak's expression was grief-stricken. “And the casualty reports are still coming in...” he added; almost numb by the loss.

Julian didn't know what to say—how to possibly console him. There were no words. Nothing that would serve justice.

“ Are you going to congratulate me, Doctor?” Garak asked bitterly, “My exile is officially over. I've returned home. Or rather, to what's left of it.”

“ I know thing must look bleak to you right now, Garak...” Julian whispered.

“ Some may say that we've gotten exactly what we deserve...after all, we're not exactly 'innocent' are we?” Garak pointed out dryly. “And I'm not just talking about the Bajoran occupation...our entire history is one of arrogant aggression. We collaborated with the Dominion...betrayed the Alpha Quadrant...there's no doubt about it. We're guilty as charged.”

“ We both know the Cardassians are strong people. They'll survive. Cardassia will survive,” Julian reassured him with as much confidence as he could muster.

“ Doctor,  _ please.  _ Spare me your insufferable Federation optimism,” Garak bit out. “ _ Of course it will survive... _ but not the Cardassia I knew. We had a rich and ancient culture—our literature, music, art were second to none. And now, so much of it is lost...so many of our best people...our most gifted minds...”

“ I'm sorry, Garak. I didn't mean—”

“ Quite all right, Doctor,” Garak assuaged, collecting himself. “You've been... _ a good friend.  _ I'm going to miss our lunches together.”

_ Oh. _

Julian's heart lurched.  _ This was goodbye. He was coming to say goodbye— _ Julian heard a sudden high pitched ringing in his ears—

No— _ no. _

“ I'm sure we'll see each other again,” Julian replied in some self-denial: demanding, asking,  _ praying— _

Garak's eyes glistened and Julian felt like he was slowly shattering... _ all the things they'd never said...everything they'd never been... _

_ So many regrets, piercing through him— _

“ I'd like to think so,” Garak replied softly; resigned, “But who can say...we live in uncertain times.”   
  
Julian watched his shuttle leave the airlock. He watched until it was but a faint, tiny point on the farthest horizon. He stayed there, staring out the window, long after it disappeared from view and he only barely registered the small, slight fingered hand on his shoulder, so gentle was its touch. 

“I’m sorry, Julian,” Ezri whispered in the smallest, saddest voice. 

“Me too,” he said numbly, allowing himself to be folded into the comfort of her arms.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic.' Convergence' is part of a 2-part series, and 'Impact' will be coming soon. I would highly recommend you subscribe for the update. 
> 
> Have no fear, these poor boys will get the proper ending they deserve. ;)


End file.
